The Long Crusade
by Snowdino
Summary: The story of the cleansing of the Darkest Dungeon, told mostly through Reynauld's eyes. Plot will not adhere totally to the game, most of was planned when the game was in EA. There will be Crusader/Hellion, and any others will come out as I go along. Rated M for probable gore and plausible lemon.
1. Signing On

The heir had stepped off a carriage in the last town, dressed in a lavish cloak. He strode into the tavern with an air of confidence. Whether this was borne of naivety or experience, time would tell. He looked decidedly out of place among the patrons, drunks slumped over tables and fighters in dirtied armour.

"I require escort to the hamlet. The estate of the D-" the heir stopped. An unearthly silence had fallen over the tavern, like earth settling on a grave. The patrons had all snapped around to look at him, even the drunks perking up and taking notice. The estate's name was never spoken aloud, and when it became necessary to refer to it, the colloquial name was the "Darkest Estate". The original name was bad luck. Any who had doubted this fact saw the foremost critic grasped by a tentacle and pulled into the swamps but seconds after uttering it. The word has barely left his lips when the slimy appendage wrapped around his torso. There were no native species with tentacles. Ever since, even the bravest man watched his tongue. Now, Reynauld and Dismas, shining examples of the bar's patrons, taking the roles of weary warrior and disoriented drunk respectively, paid more attention than most, and for different reason. They needed gold and needed it quickly. They had been hard-pressed to find work, and soon they wouldn't even have enough to live. Dismas had attempted cheating at the gambling table, but that had ended... Poorly. Reynauld went over to the man, dodging the disapproving stares.

"Come over here and let's hear the offer," Reynauld whispered, putting a hand around the man's shoulder and guided him to his table. Once they had the man settled in with a mug of ale, he elaborated.

"You see, I recently received a letter from my father, estranged for many years. I was to return to the D- Darkest Estate," he nearly said the name, but quickly corrected himself as glares fixed onto him.

"I must cleanse the estate of its evils. Afraid I can't go into detail on the nature of it, but rest assured it's a job for steel and gunfire. You'll be paid, and renowned as the heroes who cleansed the estate."

"Hold up. This is all peachy, but vague promises are useless. I want numbers," Dismay demanded.

"Of course. 750 apiece for escort to the estate, and 1000 for everytime you perform work of the nature I described. All expenses paid, covering room and board, training, weapons and armour, and... Recreational activities." At this, Reynauld swore he saw Dismas smirk.

"Excuse us a second, sir," Reynauld told the heir, pulling Dismas aside

"By all means," he waved them aside.

"So, what do you think?" Reynauld was experienced, but a stranger to grifters, and thus he called on Dismas' expertise.

"Damn good deal. Fantastic rate. Normally I'd say something was up, but it's the Darkest Estate. Rate matches the reputation. He's not conning. So if you're game for the Darkest Estate, go for it," Dismas took another swig of ale.

Reynauld stood there, pondering. An estate of evil, a reputation so dire none would touch it... Well, that sounded like a situation that required a holy warrior. Besides, it was the situation the holy warrior required. Now out of his order, to earn fame and fortune on his own would be the greatest boon he could possibly receive.

Reynauld sat in front of the heir, Dismas trudging after.

"We accept," Reynauld told the heir.

"Hm, two questions first. Just the two of you? And, uh, is he always like this?" The heir glanced at Dismas, who had just punched a man in the face.

"Yes, and we'll be enough. I'll show you the plan later. As for him, Dismas is a consummate professional when working. He puts just as much energy into partying properly. On that note, we should leave. Quickly." Dismas had won the bar fight, but Reynauld didn't much like that the man's friends were moving to get up. He grabbed Dismas by the collar of his coat and hustled the group out of the tavern.

"Shall we leave, then? We can talk strategy in the stagecoach," the heir posited, gesturing to the stagecoach. It was in severe disrepair, the wheels cracked and the fabric ripped. Chests were haphazardly strapped onto it, the poor vehicle groaning from the strain. The heir gave a sheepish look.

"Only coach that runs the path, I get it," Reynauld remarked.

They got on the stagecoach, and Reynauld explained the plan he'd hastily thrown together once he was determined to embark on this errand. They would keep to the side paths, crossing onto the main road only at the last possible moment. The heir seemed to have trouble concentrating, his gaze wandering every so often before snapping back to look at him, disconcerted. Strategy was a nice interest, he supposed. They spent the rest of the trip listening to the chattering of wheels on gravel, interspersed with the crack of a whip or the snore of Dismas, sleeping off the alcohol.


	2. Arrival

The coach stopped with the estate in sight, the village hidden in the forest. Reynauld tapped Dismas on the shoulder, and told him, "Time to work."

Dismas jolted awake. The slovenly drunk was gone. The man in front of them was straight backed and focused, hands but a centimetre from his weapons. Dismas hopped off the cart, not a trace of a hangover in his manner. The heir was noticeably impressed.

They kept the coach trailing a distance behind them, the heir inside. Reynauld nodded to Dismas, who tossed his gun to Reynauld, drew his knife, and bolted ahead into some bushes. Reynauld took this time to clean Dismas' guns. Dismas was officially his squire, but the two had known each other long enough to dispense of titles and supposed roles. What needed to be done, was done. Nothing more was necessary.

Dismas returned, accepting his gun with a nod. He wiped off his knife, dirtied from hacking through branches, and from the red stains, likely a throat as well.

"Met a bandit with two knives. Too bad he barely even knew how to use one. Found some gold and a map in his tent. We have a gunman and a buriser up ahead," Dismas addressed each point curtly.

Reynauld nodded, noticing that Dismas' belt had two new additions. They proceeded, beckoning the stagecoach after them. They crept up behind the two, only the rustle of bushes heard from Reynauld's inexpert movement. Luckily, the brigands heard nothing they perceived suspicious enough to warrant an investigation. Dismas pointed at the fusilier, at himself, and then counted down from three with his fingers. Reynauld decided that it was better not to take chances and just kill his man. From his spot, he could see the chief, a hulking mountain of meat. Incapacitating that foe would be some Herculean feat, probably involving darts. He gripped his sword tightly, tensing in preperation.

They leapt from the bushes, perfectly synchronised killers. Dismas had his gun to the fusilier's head, a knife pressing sharply into side to warn him not to reach for the holstered guns.

Reynauld, on the other hand, had elected to plunge his sword straight through the ribcage of the hulking bandit. They both fell, Reynauld using his weight to drive his sword in to the hilt. The man struggled beneath him, attempting to get back up with a grunt. As he began to move, Reynauld dragged the sword up, neatly cleaving the man in two.

Reynauld shook the blood off the sword, swiping it at the grass to remove more. Dismas pushed the disarmed fusilier forward with his gun.

"Alright, so where's your loot?" Dismas growled.

"It-It's over there..." the bandit pointed. Dismas jerked his head at the bandit, and Reynauld took position, sword to his throat. Dismas hauled the chest out of the tent, and ran his hands over it carefully.

"Hmph," Dismas snorted, and popped the chest open, tossing aside the trap mechanism he had extracted. The coach now pulled up behind them. The heir took a moment to stare in disgust at the corpse before clearing his throat and turning to the two mercenaraies.

"Are we... ready to leave?" he asked. Reynauld glanced at him, and then clocked the bandit with the hilt of his sword, knocking him out.

"Growing soft, Reynauld?" Dismas inquired.

"Well, we need to gain a reputation around here. Might as well start now," he replied, pulling himself onto the cart. Dismas followed, pocketing his counterpart's ammunition.

As they rolled into the hamlet, Dismas was overjoyed to notice that there was a tavern. replete with lights and noise. Reynauld, on the other hand, was not too happy about the dilapidated training grounds and blacksmith facilities.

The heir nodded at the two of them as they got off the coach, "Your rooms are above the tavern. Take a break, clean your equipment. We'll start work proper when the two others get here. As it is, I have some matters to attend to. Good night, gentlemen."

The heir walked off, and the two headed into the tavern to inspect their rooms and acquire nourishment. Reynauld cleaned his armour and sword, took a bath, and went to bed.


	3. Full Party

He awoke sweating, and clutching for his sword. Reynauld shook his head, attempting to shrug off the damnable remnants of his restless night that still haunted his mind. They left, as they always did, determining that they had tormented him enough, and Reynauld became fully conscious of his surroundings. The hamlet, of course. Reynauld prepared for his day, the heavy and stuffy armour feeling less like a weight than his own memories. As the helmet went on, he took comfort in the isolation it provided.

He tramped downstairs, nodding gratefully at the barkeep, who handed him a portion of the hearty fare they served. Reynauld tilted his helmet up, exposing just enough of his mouth to begin his meal. He noticed the slight sigh of dismay around him, and chuckled gently. He wolfed the stew down, and wiped the spilled broth off with the back of the gauntlet.

Reynauld was about to leave to begin his morning training when there came a heavy knock on the door. He opened it, curious at what manner of person would arrive at the hamlet. The door was pushed open, and the figure pushed past him with but a curt nod. Light leather armour adorned them, that iconic bird mask signifying their status as a plague doctor. Reynauld shuddered slightly, not at the sight of the doctor, but due to memories of the pestilence and the trail of death it left behind. Trailing behind was the poor chariot driver, saddled with an eclectic collection of tools, precariously secured vials of mysterious liquids, and some nondescript leather sacks, the latter somehow being the most interesting of all, due to the extreme peculiarity of the other items.

The Plague Doctor sauntered up the stairs, ignoring the stares of the patrons and the muttered complaints of the chariot driver. He heard a door upstairs slam, before the now unburdened caretaker returned, rubbing his rump and muttering curses under his breath. The barkeep let out a chortle, quickly silenced by a glare.

Reynauld shook his head and exited the tavern. Taking a walk around the grounds, he made certain to remember the layout of the town. He was still unsure what he would be facing, but a lesson taught to him by the Order was that regardles of where you were, it needed to be prepared for a siege. He was overjoyed to note the town had a watch set up, and a supply of rusty, if servicable weapons. Reynauld entered the training grounds, glad to see the familiar sight of training dummies and archery targets positioned in the grounds.

 _Ah, better not let Dismas know about those,_ he thought, recalling Dismas' propensity to practice on archery targets, which were ill-suited for the force of guns. Reynauld began his routine, his muscles performing the actions of their own volition, allowing his mind to wander. Reynauld would often espouse that weapon forms were the warrior's meditation, drawing from experience. He pondered the newcomer as his sword struck the dummy.

 _A Plague Doctor so far from the pestilence?_ He wondered what could possibly bring one of their ilk so far away from where they were needed. _He is either among the upper echelons of the_ _ir organisation, or an outcast._ Reynauld suddenly lost focus, fumbling with his sword for a moment before pivoting his hand and regaining control. _I guess I'm one to talk... I wonder if he thinks the same about me._

Reynauld was suddenly very conscious of his armour. Some, but not all Plague Doctors were employed by the Church, and he foresaw an interesting guessing game between he and the doctor. Between the orders created by the Church's constant schisms, the fact that any agent of the church encountered in dubious circumstances, which were all too abundant, between the pestilence and wars, could easily have defected from the Church. The Orders were united by resistance against two things, the plague and the infidels. With defectors, it was anyone's guess what their alleigance was. If the Plague Doctor was a member of an opposing Order, or worse, one of his old Order, all hell would soon break loose. There were three Orders which dominated the political landcape; The Order of the Morningstar, The League of Light, and The Sheperd's Crook. Of course, it was always possible he was one less disposed to religious fervor, but the state of the world made that a long shot.

He finished his routine, swiping twice at the dummy's neck with enough force to cleave a man's neck in twain. Then, for the Coup de grâce, Reynauld pounced back, a fair distance from the dummy. Taking a running start, he pounced forward and drove the sword into the dummy, ramming the sword clean through the wooden brace of the dummy. The world stood still for a moment, Reynauld holding his position. The dummy remained perched, as if in abject shock that it had been chopped in half. Finally, gravity caught up to it, and the top half of the dummy fell off. Reynauld was about to groan at his own hypocrisy, when he heard a slow clap from close by. He whirled around to see another figure whose stature he recognised instantly.

While the Plague Doctor had had a familiar face, so to speak, the distinctive qualities of this character was in the cloth. Hoods had become rather popular in recent trying times, as more and more people decided it was advantageous to remain inconspicuous. The breastplate and mace were yet more emblematic of the times. Travellers were often set upon by lurking knaves, and anything that would fend them off was carried on your person. However, the book clasped to the belt identified her beyond a shadow of the doubt. The cloth she donned marked her as a woman of the cloth. This was a Vestal Virgin. These women cloistered from the world from young to train as missionaries and warriors. All took vows of chastity, lust being seen as one of the main enemies of purity. The various vices had all been taken care of by the sequestering of the women from young to adulthood. Romance, however, was a constant danger, regardless of the age of the woman, and the vows served as better detterent. Not to mention that the Church could always disown the Vestals who did succumb, pointing to the doctrines that forbade it as sufficient reason.

With the Vestal, Reynauld was more relaxed than with the doctor. Vestals were not educated in the different Orders, since their duty as warriors rarely extended past monsters. Monsters were agreed upon by every Order to be evil and were to be destroyed by all agents for good. Reynauld glanced at the book, and noted her Order: The Order of the Morningstar. _Maybe I should have expected that, given the mace..._

"That's some impressive skill there. I'm Junia, Vestal and Warrior of the Morningstar. I presume you are here to fight the monsters as well?" Junia asked, smiling pleasantly and genuinely the way only women of the Church could.

"You would be correct, milady," Reynauld responded.

Junia's cheek twitched almost imperceptibly, but her composure immediately returned. She glanced around, and responded, "I doubt the locals mind all too much, so we may as well dispense with the formailites. Just call me Junia. I don't believe I caught your name?"

"I'm Reynauld the Crusader, at your service," he said. The lack of mention of his order was noticeable by both of them. Luckily, Junia did not press the issue.

"Well, I've been told to go find someone around here to show me the ropes. I think you'd do admirably," she said.

"Well, I can show you around, though I haven't been around for much longer than you have," Reynauld told her. As he began to leave, Junia thrust her mace out, giving Reynauld pause. Junia's eyes narrowed, and a smirk grew on her face.

"Now, now, I'm in no rush to leave. First, I'd like to have a spar," Junia told him.


	4. Brief

Note: Right, the previous update didn't pan out so well. I'd intended to end Act 1 by October, but some stuff popped up, and that didn't happen. Then I spent November participating in NaNoWriMo. I'm back now. Expect updates.

* * *

Nuns were nice, sweet matrons. Reynauld had spent his training in an abbey, and all the nuns he had met worked on upkeeping the abbey, or tended to the soldiers' wounds. Nuns definitely were not supposed to hit fence posts with enough force to split them in twain. The wood splintered as the mace whistled, barely missing his right arm. Junia readied the mace for another strike, and Reynauld was not so lucky this time. The mace struck true, the ringing sound of metal striking metal ringing out. The deafening chorus sounded out in his helmet where the mace struck, reverberating. The metal which encased his head created a veritable echo chamber, and his vision was blurred fReynauld buckled over and lost concentration for a second, barely registering that Junia had raised her mace for the finisher. Then he gritted his teeth, and the old combat focus returned. Reynauld charged into Junia, head still lowered. The mace swung ineffectually, and the headbutt knocked the wind right out of the vestal. Junia was knocked backwards, the mace flying out of her hand. Reynauld held out the longsword and cocked his head. Junia sighed and raised her hands, yielding.

Meanwhile, Dismas was busy trying to get himself arrested on charges of being drunk and disorderly. When Dismas had nobody guilty to steal from, no one he was being paid to kill, was not training or preening and posturing for females, he was drinking. The man was either a consummate, polite professional, or an insane drunk. Luckily, there were no local authorities in the area, and the people had a pretty relaxed enforcement of laws. In a postively miraculous stroke of luck, Dismas had chose to pick a fight with the one person who was both an outsider, and was required to put up with him. Admittedly, he did not know that at the time.

"You- gotta weird mask, man... You, you got a zipper? Do you take it off to eat? Do you drink from the beak?" Dismas rambled at the plague doctor, gesturing wildly at the plate of food in front of them. Oddly enough, Dismas' hangovers were nearly identical to his drunken benders. They seemed unamused, but it was impossible to tell given the mask. The doctor fished out a vial from the fathomless pockets of their robe and thrust it into Dismas' face. Dismas blinked and stared at them.

"... How did you do that?" Dismas asked, mouth agape. The slur in his voice had disappeared, and Dismas seemed perfectly lucid, beyond the shock clearly registering on his face.

"Don't look a gift horse in the mouth," the plague doctor said, the first words anyone had heard. The sound was muffled and gritty, and followed by a small chuckle at their own joke.

Junia and Reynauld then entered, Junia pressing a hand to her stomach and wincing. Reynauld followed with a sheepish grin, ignoring the varied reactions of the bar's patrons. Those varied between suspicion, anger, and congratulatory cheering.

The two sat down at the table the others were at, and there was a moment of uncomfortable silence as the compatriots met each other. While they had not been told that these were, in fact, their comrades, they were the only outsiders in the town. Then Dismas ordered everyone a round, and the whole group relaxed.

"Alright, hello everyone. Do we maybe want to begin with introductions?" Reynauld said to the table. "I'll start. My name is Reynauld, and I'm a Crusader."

"Junia, Vestal and Warrior of the Morningstar," she offered, smiling. Then her hand flashed, and she pulled it away from her stomach. Reynauld, for lack of ability to raise his eyebrow, cocked his head instead.

"Healing. Carry on," Junia told him, looking back down. Reynauld nodded his head. When he had done healing in the crusades, he had needed a banner, a symbol, and several amulets. Then again, Crusaders normally had dedicated medics.

"Pfft, quack medicine," the doctor muttered in a stage whisper.

"Wait, you don't believe in healing? You've never seen it done?" Junia asked in disbelief.

"Every one of these 'faith healings' I've seen was on minor bruises. It's never been verified," they retorted.

"Well, clearly you've never met any healers of my caliber," Junia said, grinning.

"Hmph, if there were healers of such caliber who deigned to assist the plague-afflicted, there wouldn't be any demand for ones of mine," they riposted sharply.

Junia began to object, and then paused. The smile returned to her countenance, but it was a little more forced, a little more strained. Dismas grabbed a beer off a serving wench's platter, and begain drinking.

"Well, I'll take that as my cue. Call me the Plague Doctor," the plague doctor curtly said. The volume of their voice was a constant variation, but that filter of grit was always there.

"Hi, I'm Dismas, and I'm an alcoholic," Dismas cut into the other two, who had begun to protest the unforthcoming nature of the doctor. As he finished the sentence he took a swig from his mug, draining the glass. Reynauld punched Dismas gently in the arm.

"I'm the guy with the guns and the knife. My role doesn't have a name," Dismas said.

"Yeah it does, it's called bandit," Junia started. Dismas' face contorted, and everyone at the table knew she had pinched a nerve. Reynauld sighed under his helmet, knowing very well he would have to make these people a fighting team.

Fortunately, the heir picked precisely this moment to stride in. The man was more respledent now, having changed from the thick, rugged travelling coat to one with the Darkest Estate coat of arms on it. Along with the new clothing came a renewed purpose and vigor. He sat down at the table and glanced about the people there.

"Good morning, it seems like everyone is here. I presume this is a good time to perform the first briefing?" At those words, the assembled members snapped to attention, as straight-backed as a royal guard.

"I've been spending my time learning the lay of the land. I've been studying the notes my predecessor left. What you need to know right now is that there is a library lower in the ruins that include some proper information. To sum it up, my ancestor spent time digging around the mansion, and uncovered a portal that spat out a horde of monsters. The library was a command centre for the mining efforts.

"Now, I get the idea that Reynauld has the most experience in leading, so I'd like to given him control of tactical decisions and such. I'll give you all an assignment here every Monday, and you'll all work from there. All of that clear?" The party nodded.

"Alright, so... the ruins functioned as catacombs for a long time. Those corpses are now walking."

The table was silent among the hum and throng of the bar's regular patrons. All that was heard was a soft snort from the doctor.


	5. First Contact

The heir passed them some folders of information and rudimentary maps, then left to handle more business. Reynauld skimmed through the documents, the heir left with a curt nod around the table, and the others waited expectantly for Reynauld's instructions. Reynauld took his time with the information, which was admittedly scant. He knew where the ruins were relative to the hamlet, the type of enemy they were up against, and about naught else. Finally, Reynauld looked up to the faces, and explained his plan.

"We have a lot ahead of us right now. I want to understand the scope of what we have and what we're up against. To those ends, I want a rundown of what everyone here is capable of. I know you're a vestal, I know you're a plague doctor. That doesn't tell me as much as you might think. Tell me what you have, and then what you want. We'll see about getting more supplies and such as we go on. In regards to the second point, I'm thinking about a series of skirmishes. We go in, fight what we can, and exit. Once we know our enemy, we'll invade the library in earnest. Get those reports to me by the end of the day. Take the rest of the time to get to know the facilities and see what you can use. Dismas, you follow me, I have an idea."

At that, the group split up, Reynauld and Dismas triapsing off in one direction, and Junia in another. The Plague Doctor gathered up the beer and broth, and carted them off upstairs.

Soon enough, the duo were riding towards the ruins. Reynauld had comandeered the rickety stagecoach they had arrived in. The caretaker had let it go without a fight after assurances that the heir had given them his permission.

"So... if we want to know how to fight our enemy, we have to fight one... right?" Reynauld proposed, intentionally beating around the bush as they neared their destination.

"Reynauld, hop to it. This is your 'bad idea' tone of voice," Dismas said, eyebrows raised.

"I... uhhh, want to... kidnap a skeleton," Reynauld told him.

"That is a terrible idea. I love it," Dismas leaned forward, rubbing his hands together eagerly. Reynauld breathed a sigh of relief. They hopped off at a clearing near the ruins, and Dismas hitched the carriage to a sturdy oak.

The two snuck up to the ruins, or rather, Dismas slinked towards them as Reynauld attempted to silence the clanking metal that foretold his arrival. Reynauld then settled down beside a tree to read a book, allowing Dismas to work. Upon finishing a fantastic treatise on chivalrous combat conduct towards untrained female martyr troops in the Muslim territories, a rare occurence that nonetheless was troublesome for the Order, Dismas signalled him with a thumbs-up. Reynauld nodded back, picked up his sword, and charged headlong into the ruins.

The first thing he noticed was that it was dark. Although from the outside it could be seen that the ceilings had caved in, the ruins very quickly descended into lower levels, Reynauld advanced forward in a straight line, listening intently. He noticed many very interesting objects, but without light or allies, and with a more important agenda, they would have to wait. Reynauld made a mental note of the location of an altar of the Light, and carried on. Finally, he saw movement that was not a figment of his imagination, conjured up by that primal fear of the darkness that gave way to hallucinatory paranoia. Reynauld mused that humankind had long since deemed that seeing nonexistent figures in the darkness was normal. It served some purpose, giving well-deserved fear of the dark to man, but for a time when they'd become able to defeat the dark, it was useless. Reynauld stopped short of the figure, a skeleteon holding a sword. He squinted at it for a while, then decided he needed more light.

He closed his eyes, decided on the best line to use, and recited from the Versebook: "Verse XXXVI: The Light shines brightest in darkness." The hilt of his sword glowed, and a dim light emitted from it. The skeleton was bathed in the glow, and it turned towards the source instantly. The bones gleamed white, indicating a relatively new death. Rages still clung loosely, having lost the meat and sinew which once filled out the spare space. He could see bits of muscle not yet fully decomposed, a small maggot squirming about. He suspected maggots would be a common sight, but the lower levels would have less meat to sustain them. Presumably there would be other life for them to feast on. Reynauld, having verified its identity, turned around and ran out.

Reynauld looked back over his shoulder frequently, trying to glean more information. The skeleton kept roughly to his pace. Since Reynauld was encumbered by armour, that meant the skeleton was possessed of less than stellar speed. On the other hand, bone made far less noise than the metal, which clanked against itself in the silent halls. The skeleton glided through the corridors, only making noise when bumping against things.

Reynauld pondered the physics of a walking skeleton as he moved. There was no living flesh to move the skeleton, so he assumed it was a mystical force. He would have to discuss it with the doctor. Reynauld considered the doctor as well, taking into account the things he had learnt during the . They had offered no adverse reaction to seeing him, and had shown no loyalty to the Light or the occult. That made him a freelancer, whether by choice or exile. That, or a fantastic actor. Still, high-ranking members of Orders were rarely skilled in deception, and most would not utter such heresy, especially not when it was unnecessary.

Finally, Reynauld reached the surface of the ruin. The light washed over him, and he blinked rapidly, forcing his pupils to constrict and become accustomed to the abundance of light. He looked backwards to the skeleton, who was still hot on his heels. Reynauld ran part-ways into the forest, then tripped on a stone, flying into the air and slamming onto the ground. He rolled over, and the skeleton menacingly approaced. Then the skeleton was pulled into the snare Dismas had set up. The noose around its leg tightened, and it was hoisted bodily into the air. Reynauld chuckled gently, noting that even the undead were not immune to the deception tactics of the Mangudai.

The skeleton flailed and writhed in the air, but Dismas' ropework was flawless. The unholy creature desperately swung about in the air. Reynauld slapped the mace from the skeleton's hand, for fear that it would drop onto them when it lost its grip.

Dismas observed the frantic thrashing, and commented: "I'm going to get more rope."


	6. Reverie

AN: This is the first real look into the backstory of the characters. Don't worry, this is the only one you're getting for free (because this is told by Reynauld, after all). Everything else you'll have to work for. I'll be trying to make longer updates with a shorter wait, but the best laid plans etc.

Quick address of the issue that keeps being raised: Reread the bits with the Plague Doctor in them. See if you notice anything interesting. ;)

Additionally, I know the guys in the game are cannon fodder, but at least in this story, there's just one of each character. NB: this is actually how I play the game. I have a "Highlander" Save.

Anyways, enjoy. I'd be more than happy to hear from you lot about everything in general, so if you feel like it, shoot me something.

* * *

Eventually the skeleton was trussed up like a pig, nailed to a wooden board, and the writhing was contained enough so that the carriage was in no danger of upending on the way back to the hamlet. The horses were oddly on guard, but with a bit of coaxing, they calmed down enough to set off. Reynauld drove the carriage while Dismas prodded the skeleton with a stick he had procured during his wait in the woods.

"Guess the heir wasn't lying, was he?" Dismas remarked to Reynauld, who was trying to maneuver the carraige through the path. Inexplicably, the woods and paths had grown yet more twisted and impassable than on the journey here.

"Suppose not," Reynauld returned over his shoulder.

"You alright?" Dismas asked back, setting the stick down on the skeleton's chest, in between the ridges of the ropes. "Gloomy sulking doesn't suit you."

"I was just thinking... the verses list the return of the dead as an omen of the end of days. With everything else going on..."  
"The plague's got all of you religious types on your toes. I'd say you shouldn't worry until the skeletons are tearing down the castles. If they're keeping to the one place everyone knows is evil, that's not bloody likely to end anything. Chin up," Dismas quipped, returning to his endeavours, this time playing a jaunty tune by knocking the stick against the skeleton's ribcage and humming along. Despite himself, Reynauld stopped worrying. Dismas' logic was ever practical, and he was able to oppose religious views without stepping too hard on his toes. It was a combination of familiarity and his use of humor. It was another reason Reynauld kept Dismas in his company. He defused situations and calmed people with a friendly demeanour, standing in stark relief to Reynauld's style of military command.

Dismas and Reynauld's meeting was a prime example of the hands of fate conspiring to make odd events happen. Dismas was a former highwayman, of one of the numerous groups profiting from the crusades. As the fighting on both sides forced mass civilian evacuations, the bandit gangs swooped in to loot the desolate towns and rob what little the fleeing rufugees carried with them. Of course, the situation was never so clear-cut. Many of the civillians lost all their possessions to Ottoman attacks, or having them commandeered by the knights. Unable to buy passage away from the front lines on a caravan or wagon, and faced with the unpleasant choice of trudging through miles of muddy tracks with nothing but the clothes on their back, joining a bandit gang became far more attractive an option. They offered food, foraged from the forest. A hearty fare of rabbit, deer, and other woodland animals, stewed with herbs and vegetables foraged from the forest or abandoned fields. They offered safety, for the Ottomans saw the bandits as a hindrance to the knights, and left them alone. A pack of strong men with guns and bows, who moved through the forest as easily as they would a road, were the last targets the heavily armoured knights wished to fight. This was a sentiment shared by the knights, which left the bandits in relative peace. After all, who could expend troops on fighting petty bandits when that meant taking them away from the war effort? They offered a chance at revenge against those who had escaped destruction, yet refused to accept their fellow refugees without payment in return. The bandits were men and women who found a different way to safeguard their lives.

Dismas was one of their best. He moved silently through the brush, never encountering an errant twig nor scaring wildlife. He was rumored to be able to skip a rock over a lake and nail it at the apex of the fourth leap, without ever looking at its path. When asked to do so, he would of course note that gunfire would only give away their position. While this would seem to be an excuse, Reynauld had the opportunity of witnessing it after pestering Dismas during their travels. The bandit attacks shortly after only added to the impressiveness, as Dismas shot targets based merely on their footsteps.

He was a skilled highwayman, and attacked mainly large, wealthy targets. He would leave them enough to manage the rest of their travel, but take the rest. Often, he would rob caravans simply by stepping out in front of them with a gun in his hand. His reputation would have them surrender immediately.A red scarf wrapped around his mouth, as a warning of the consequences of disobeying, he was an iconic figure around the area.

Then he made a mistake. He raided a caravan belonging to a visiting priest, there to give morale to the troops. His carriage covered in luxury and decadence, containing golden goblets and silver crosses. It no doubt provided plenty of food and supplies for the bandits, and Dismas left the procession with only minor cuts and bruises, and plenty of their goods. Yet, he had invoked the ire of the Church. When the priest had heard that the bandit was named Dismas, one of the myriad saints, it only stoked the fire. He pulled an entire division of knights, which trudged into the forest to try to capture him. Many were caught in traps, leading to an unfavourable sentiment at both the priest and the bandits. When they eventually found the bandits, the knights went in swords drawn. The bandits fought bravely, avoiding lethal shots to avoid a stronger reaction. One of the knights took a girl hostage, and that was the final straw. Dismas surrendered himself, to the dismay of most of the knights. The priest was satisfied, however, and they trooped back to the barracks, Dismas in tow. The Order had taken a local lord's castle for a base, sending the lord and his family off to the royal court instead. The staff, they sent off to add to the refugee and bandit populations.

The hostage triggered something in Reynauld, too. As the knights cavorted about the campfire, he decided that taking little girls hostage was where he drew the line, and he decided to desert the Order. It was not a hasty decision, the result of a cumulative series of incidents. On his way out, stepping gently to avoid waking his slumbering comrades, he stopped by the dungeons. He carried his armour in a chest, afraid that putting it on would make too much noise.

"Back for more, then? I'm afraid I still won't consent to a baptism, if only because of the bath," Reynauld heard as he opened the dungeon door. It was followed by a bark of laughter, then tortured coughing. As he entered, Dismas was chained by his ankle to the wall in his cell, stripped of his trademark scarf and overcoat. Bruises and welts marked his visible skin, with no doubt many more. Trickles of blood rolled down his forehead from a particularly nasty wound.

"Ah, you're a different one. Do you lot take turns, or did you have to trade for it?" Dismas chuckled.

"What happened to you?" Reynauld asked, stepping up to the cell bars, putting the chest down.

"What do you think? The priest gave me a good one. Thought he'd handed it off to you. Is a priest or a knight better at dealing pain? Now that's a tough question."

"We don't-"

"Don't give me that holier-than-thou shit, mind you. Taking hostages is hardly virtuous behaviour. That's all alright, then. Picking up a sword is a free pass to heaven, never-mind the road there."

"Fighting for the Light is righteous," Reynauld insisted.

"Again, taking hostages. If the ends justify the means, go on ahead. The men you call bandits are just trying to protect their families, after everything you lot have done with the war. We haven't done a thing, really. Stealing, yes. I'm more than happy to admit to that. We haven't killed anyone, and we haven't helped the Ottomans. Then again, I saw how you reacted back there. Something tells me you agree with me, even if just a little bit. That's why you're here, isn't it?" Dismas' eyes flashed, goading Reynauld into doing something. Reynauld didn't know whether to punch him or free him.

Reynauld sighed. He found the key to the cell and the chain, and undid them both.

"This doesn't prove you're right," Reynauld protested.

"We'll have time for that later," Dismas dusted his hands, wiped the blood from his face, and strode over to his equipment. Either his earlier weakness way a ploy for sympathy, or his current strength was needless bravado. The man was an enigma.

When Dismas had been properly equipped, the door to the dungeon was thrown open.

"What is the meaning of this?" the priest thundered, storming into the room. Dismas and Reynauld looked to each other, alarmed. Dismas had not loaded his guns, and as the priest strode down to them, Reynauld struggled to think of an excuse.

"Why is the prisoner free?" the priest demanded of Reynauld. Dismas, to his credit, took the chance to leap onto the man and throttle him. The priest, a rather portly man, flailed about. All it took was an accidental slip of his blood-covered hands, and the man's neck snapped with a sickly sound of twisting flesh and bone.

"Fuck," Dismas cursed. "I swear I didn't mean to do that."

"We'll have time for that later," Reynauld grimaced. There really was no turning back now. He hurriedly put on his armor, his greatsword gripped tightly in his hand.

Their escape from the encampment was uneventful. Dismas had memorised the passageways, and led them out of the manor without issue. Where normally there would be patrolling guards, the understaffed knights merely had watchmen at the gates. Dismas led him out of a small hole in the castle walls.

"Tighter fit then I remembered," grumbled Dismas

"How _do_ you know about this?" Reynauld asked Dismas, impressed.

"Oh, I snuck into the manor all the time as a boy," he answered, "Come on then, there's nothing left for us there."

They walked far away from the war, picking up work as they went. Both would be hunted down by the Church, were they to stay, and they could never interact with it for fear of being recognized. Luckily, the two men got along fantastically, agreeing to disagree on religion, their major point of contention. It would be brought up on late nights in the pub or by a campfire, but when both were hunted by the Church, the question of the existence of gods was less important. Dismas' past was shrouded in mystery, but as he put it: 'Why bother about that when there's stuff to do in the present?"

Reynauld pulled into the hamlet, and Dismas draped his coat over the skeleton, shrouding it from view. They carried the skeleton into the hamlet like a stretcher, the inhabitants assuming that it was a corpse. Dead bodies were par for the course for this place. Reynauld was yet more appreciative for Dismas' steady ropework. The coat barely moved, and none of the locals bat an eye at the procession. A moving body would bring curious onlookers or good samaritans, while an exposed, writhing skeleton would invite a horde of villagers with pitchforks and torches.

Reynauld hauled the skeleton into the training facility, propping it up against one of the dummies.

"I'm going to go fetch the others. Just don't shoot the skeleton," Reynauld warned.

"Yeah, yeah. Get out of here already," Dismas waved Reynauld off with a yawn.

"I'm serious Dismas. We do need this information," Reynauld stared Dismas in the eye.

"You can't stare me down with a helmet on, Reynauld. Now get out." All the same, Reynauld squinted at Dismas before backing out of the building.


	7. Disrepair

Reynauld returned to the sight of the barkeep, and several of the bar's heftier patrons surrounding the Plague Doctor. To their credit, they simply leaned against the wall and stared back at them, the mask obscuring all expression. Reynauld sighed, and pushed past the patrons staring at the spectacle. He shouldered past the crowd, and tapped the barkeep on the shoulder.

"Ah, knight. You're no houndmaster, but you'll do," the barkeep let out a sigh of relief. He was clearly not looking forward to the continuation of the incident. Whether he was afeared of the damage to his property, or of having to fight the Plague Doctor, wasn't clear. The Plague Doctor certainly made a terrifying visage, now that Reynauld was close enough to view them properly. The mask betrayed no expression, yet something about the posture, or the angle of their head, made them seem dismissive of the entire situation. The glint of the glass eyes seemed to express contempt, even.

"What appears to be the problem here?" Reynauld asked, keeping a genial tone.

There was no end to his duties, it seemed. Strategist, team leader, peacemaker, and now ambassador to the civillians. Junia would not associate with people in the bar, calling it a wretched hive of vice and sin. Once outside though, she was all smiles. Also, she put the mace away. Dismas alternated between drinking deeply and laughing with the drunks, starting fights with aforementioned drunks, cheating at gambling, brooding over aforementioned drinks, and fighting people who tried to talk to him during his brooding. The Plague Doctor, well, that was evident. How exactly they had aggravated the patrons, Reynauld was dying to know.

"They're a witch, they are. Asked for Eye of Newt," the barkeep told Reynauld, glancing nervously at the doctor.

"Wouldn't that be a warlock?" another patron chimed in, in hushed tones.

"I think witch refers to both," whispered another. Reynauld shushed them with a glance.

"You'll take care of this, won't you?" the barkeep asked.

"Yes, I will," Reynauld nodded. The barkeep breathed a second sigh of relief, and headed back to the bar, the men beside him following. One straggler seemed to be sizing Reynauld up, so he put a hand on the hilt of his sword, and that sent him packing.

The Plague Doctor promptly stalked off towards the stairs, ignoring the nervous glances and death glares tossed in their general direction. Reynauld scrambled to keep up.

"What was that about, exactly? Why would you be asking for mustard seed in that way?" Reynauld asked.

"Who knows what vocabulary these... Philistines use?" the Doctor remarked.

"Everyone knows what mustard seed is, Doctor. Eye of Newt? Words like that can get you burned." Reynauld reiterated.

"Yes, well, that didn't happen. Wouldn't have, either way," the Doctor noted. "I assume you're here because of something pertinent?"

"Well, of course. We've got something for you to see. We caught one of the skeletons," Reynauld told the Plague Doctor, glancing around to see if anyone was following their conversation. The Plague Doctor stepped into their room, grabbed a small carrying case, and returned.

"Now this, I have to see," the Plague Doctor snorted. "Lead the way." The two headed downstairs, Reynauld shooting a quick nod at the barkeep.

"So, what's the report?" Reynauld asked, as they headed towards the church.

"Well, now that we have a subject, why don't I show you?" the Plague Doctor suggested, Reynauld thinking he saw a smirk on their face.

"What about supplies?" Reynauld asked. He promptly received a rolled-up bundle of paper thrust into his hands.

"Pass that to the heir. Before you ask, I've included all the names in brackets. Reynauld glanced at the tiny script scrawled all through the page, and shoved it into a pocket, deciding it was someone else's problem.

At the church, Junia was yelling at the resident priest.

"What has happened to the relics?" she barked.

"They were stolen by bandit raids," he returned, shrinking slightly under the onslaught.

"Junia!" Reynauld called out, the priest looking up to the heavens in thanks. Junia turned around, her mood changing instantly. She smiled and came over to the two of them, hand leaving her mace.

"Hello. What's going on?" Junia asked, the three of them setting off.  
"Well, we've gotten our hands on a skeleton," Reynauld filled her in.

"Oh, now that's interesting," Junia glanced at the Plague Doctor, who looked off into the distance.

"The facilities are not up to snuff, then?" Reynauld asked. It seemed logical, given the state of the training ground and armoury. The only place you could count on to be in good condition was always the tavern.

"Terrible, terrible condition. There's a layer of dust on everything, the priest seemed slightly drunk, and the last service was before recorded history," Junia scowled grimly.

"Nevermind all that though," Junia perked up. "Let's see this skeleton!" The training grounds were in sight now, when they heard a gunshot emnate from within.

"Damnit!" Reynauld cursed, dashing over to the building. He burst through the door to see Dismas crunching on an apple. The skeleton was propped up against the wall, apples with bullet holes in them scattered about its feet. Dismas waved at him, pulling an apple out of a sack beside him and offering it.

"I told you not to shoot the skeleton!" Reynauld yelled.

"I'm a good shot," Dismas gestured at the untouched skeleton.

"Besides, if you know of a better way to core an apple, I'd like to hear it," he said, coring the apple in his hand with a knife. Reynauld stared at him in disbelief.

"Interesting," the Plague Doctor prodded the skeleton as it writhed within the ropes. "It shouldn't be able to move without muscles. Nor should the bones be connected."

"Believe in magic yet?" Junia quipped.

"Any sufficiently advanced technology..." they muttered, sticking a dagger between the tibula and fibula, scraping the bone. "Will appear to be magic."

"The skeleton doesn't tell me much. I'll have to see the conditions in the ruins to make any conclusive decision," the Plague Doctor scraped the bone shards into a vial and shoved it into their robes.

"Notice anything odd about how the skeleton's been acting though?" the Plague Doctor asked. Reynauld and the others glanced at each other and shook their heads.

"It didn't flinch. With normal humans their muscles tense up, so I didn't notice until I started scraping. The skeletons don't feel pain..." they turned and held the knife against the skeleton's spinal cord.

"Nor a sense of self-preservation, apparently," they sheathed the knife, dusting their hands off.

"How best do we proceed, then?" the Doctor looked at Reynauld expectantly. Depsite the testiness that perpetually followed their speech, Reynauld appreciated that they would ask. Dismas and Junia looked over as well, and Reynauld grinned under the helmet, feeling just the slightest bit more confident of their chances.

"Form up, and we'll engage the skeleton. On my mark, Dismas, slice the rope, and we can see how hard these things are to take down," Reynauld ordered. The members dutifully lined up, unholstering and unsheathing their weapons.

"Isn't our usual formation to have me behind you, Reynauld? I can't exactly cut the rope from here," Dismas called out.

"Just throw the knife or something," Junia responded, annoyed.

"I don't know how to throw knives, Vestal!" Dismas countered.

"What variety of rogue doesn't know how to throw knives?" Junia asked, confused.

"Now, knife handling, I can do. I don't know how to throw knives. I don't know how well-supplied the bandits in your area are, but where I worked, throwing your weapon away was suicide," Dismas ranted. It was a sore point for Dismas, as Reynauld well knew. He had never gotten a chance to practice knife throwing, complaining that the practice would wear down the blade, and never willing to risk missing the projectile in a fight.

"I'm a highwayman, not a circus performer," Dismas finished. Reynauld felt that meager sliver of confidence he had gained swirl down the drain.

"I'll sever it, alright?" Reynauld declared loudly. Junia and Dismas nodded, a temporary ceasefire seemingly formed. That really was the best he could hope for, Reynauld supposed. He advanced carefully, sword held in guard position. Reynauld raised his right hand, three fingers outstretched. He counted down, and when all three fingers were down, Reynauld chopped through the rope and leapt backwards. The skeleton groaned and glanced around, presumably looking for its sword.

"This is not the most accurate representation of their combat strength, is it?" Junia asked.

"No, no it isn't," Reynauld answered, annoyed.


	8. Experimentation

"If I may?" the Plague Doctor began, entering the room with a suitcase under their arm.

"When did you leave the room?" Reynauld asked, confused.

"I intended to leave when you proposed testing their durability, to collect some materials. I actually left about the time these two started squabbling about circuses. I did not pay much attention, I admit. Not that I regret it," the Doctor set the case on the floor and opened it, retrieving a few vials of varying colours.

"The first case contained mainly the non-lethal ingredients. I had imagined we were going to subdue it and perform an examination, or I would have to... cure one of our number after a potential accident. These, however, are of the damaging variety," they continued, pouring a vial of yellow fluid into a glass flask.

"One thing I do know, without having to test it, is that bone and flesh react roughly the same way to corrosion," they frowned, and poured out a few drops of the fluid. Then, they grabbed a handful of black pellets from elsewhere in the case, and held their clenched fist over the flask. The pellets streamed down into the flask, and at some invisible cue, they clenched their fist again, stopping the flow. Returning the pellets to the case, their hand returned with a cork that they used to cap the flask.

"Assuming, of course, there is no variety of magic, divine blessing, or metallic plating of bones..." they said, shaking the flask while holding the stopper closed with a thumb. The liquid turned a sickly green colour.

"What a ridiculous proposition..." Reynauld heard the Plague Doctor mutter under their breath, which quickly decreased in volume until it was inaudible. Then the Doctor paused and cocked their head, as if considering something, then shook their head and turned back to their captive audience.

"Now let's see how this works," the Doctor gripped the flask by the neck, and launched it towards the skeleton with an expert flick of the wrist. The bottle flew towards the skeleton in a perfect arc, the attentions of all present in the room following it. It shattered upon the gleaming skull of the skeleton, splashing its contents all over it. The bone began to melt, the skeleton's face morphing past recognition of being human. The skeleton clutched at its face, collapsing to its knees and clawing. The tips of its fingers began to dissolve as well, and the skeleton pummeled the ground in a futile effort to reverse the effects. Reynauld had seen enough death and suffering for several lifetimes, but the silence of the spectacle only added to the horror. He and Dismas were battle-hardened, and watched in stoic silence, supressing any reaction. Junia, on the other hand, began to retch. Reynauld glanced at the Doctor, to see their reaction. They squatted next to the still writhing skeleton, gazing at their handiwork.

"...Fascinating," they muttered, their tone expressing a near child-like glee and wonderment.


	9. Skeptic's Sermon

Pretend this chapter and the last one are one. I jumped the gun on uploading that one.

* * *

The Doctor strolled over to the skeleton, which had dropped to its vial was withdrawn from the depths of the robes, and dumped unceremoniously over the skull of the skeleton. The skeleton slumped forward onto its hands and knees, seemingly in relief. Just when Reynauld thought the situation was over, the Doctor grasped the skeleton by the back of the skull. Whipping out a knife from the same formless mass the vial had come from, they began sawing through the spine of the skeleton. Within seconds, it was over, and the skeleton dropped to the floor, lifeless.

"Why did you do that?" Junia asked the Doctor, rage seeping into her voice. Her face flipped rapidly between anger and disgust, as if unsure what reaction would be appropriate.

"Are you referring to the chemicals, or taking the sample?" the Doctor deadpanned.

"That entire... thing!" she yelled.

"I believe I explained this already. I tested the chemicals to find out how effective they would be in a combat situation. This is a sample of the part of the specimen which was most affected by it. Is there an issue here?" the Doctor asked. They returned to the carrying case and slipped the disfigured skull into it. Junia sputtered, her pent-up rage finding no escape.

"What are you here to do, Vestal? What do you think we have been hired for?" the Doctor's voice took a hard edge, the first shadow of an emotion beyond contempt accompanying their words. Not that there was a shortage of the latter. "To save the monsters? Do you suppose a splash of water, a few words and a pat on the rump will send monstrosities off to slumber? If that sight there offended your precious sesibilities, I suggest you return home before you are called upon to view more, or- what an absurd thought!- inflict some of it. Have you ever used that mace, or just waved it in the village boys' faces to get them to go to bed?" the Doctor sneered. Junia began to speak, but the Doctor held up a finger and continued their rant.

"Even if the Light exists, let me assure you it is dim here. Perhaps elsewhere your type could call yourselves agents of peace, but let me make one thing very clear. If you intend to rekindle the Light, start by banishing the darkness. If you have time to waste on sympathy, it is terribly misplaced on these creatures. Try actually attending to your townsfolk rather than telling off your priest. They seek comfort, and if the Light cannot provide it, they will find it in drink, dice and women. Give them some modicum of comfort, and make your equipment a symbol. If not, you could always take it off for the same effect." Without waiting for a response, the Doctor turned on their heel and stormed out, shutting their case with a click.

If Junia had been angry before, she was now metamorphosing into a volcano. Reynauld stared at the door, dumbstruck.

"Can you believe the _nerve_ of them!" Junia yelled out.

"Look past the messanger... and the delivery," Reynauld told her.

"Don't tell me you agree with that stuck-up... heathen!"

"I don't disbelieve, but I have seen the ugly side of the crusade," Reynauld looked down to the gleam of the light reflecting off his sword as it streamed through the windows, bringing the must of the dilapidated building into sharp focus. He chose his next words very carefully.

"I would expect a Plague Doctor to have seen far more horrors than even I, and with no one to blame it on... It takes a toll. Forgive their bluntness. I do believe that they had good intentions. Better to flinch from death now than when it comes down to the wire."

"I cannot possibly do... that to a being. It may be an abomination, but it was once human, it still deserves mercy," the Vestal trailed off, conflicted.

"Sleep on it," Reynauld advised. "Like it or not, we'll all have to work together. How you do that, though, is up to you. I'll see you in the morning for some practice." Junia smiled gratefully. He would have to talk more to her about the morality of their situation. He would rather she make up her own mind though. People follow their own orders better than ones they receive.

Reynauld stepped out into the hamlet, the setting sun scarring the ground with lontg shadows. Reynauld thought for a second about where Dismas would be, and headed over to the tavern, wondering why he had hesitated.


	10. Ere be Errands

Reynauld pushed open the creaking door of the tavern, overflowing with the weary inhabitants of the town. Long hours of tilling the fields and tending the shops in the isolated hamlet took its toll on the villagers, and the escape of drink was the only one afforded to them. The drinking patrons alternatively nursed them slowly or chugged them down, whatever they could manage on their respective incomes. One drunk, who had gotten a rather impressive head-start on the rest, muttered something to Reynauld which he would not repeat in polite company. Especially not to his mother, despite the remark being about her. He left the drunk to his ravings and navigated further into the bar.

The barkeep caught his eye and nodded in greeting. Several of the clientele who he recalled from the previous encounter tracked his path, eyes flickering. The barkeeper's roughly positive opinion of him was enough to hold them back. Even if they worked up the courage to take on Reynauld, should the barkeeper's opinion of them fall below his opinion of the crusader, they would face the terrible fate of a dry spell. He wasn't referring to crops.

What did confuse him was the absence of Dismas from the crowd. Of all of them, he was the most welcomed within the tavern, for seeming to be just like them. If Reynauld knew Dismas at all though, this was likely an effort to kill two birds with one stone. This was something he had actually seen Dismas do.

Dismas played the bar like a maestro at a violin, building up networks of friends through rounds of fights and rounds of drinks, providing a listening ear for troubled or gossipy patrons, and building up a reputation as an unsteady drunk. All innocuous enough, but the end result was a complex network of spies and allies that lent him the advantage in most any situation.

It had taken him years of travelling with Dismas to realise that this was happening at all, and more to figure out the precise mechanisms. The subtlety of it all was what made Dismas such a powerful force back in his banditry days. Reynauld suspected Dismas had actually led the bandits, but had obscured the fact to stop himself from being a target. Dismas had refused to comment.

Reynauld hailed the barkeeper, asking, "Barkeep, have you seen Dismas anywhere, by any chance?"

The barkeeper seemed relieved to know that the subject at hand was Dismas and not one of the other two. The worst Dismas had ever done was start some fights, but given that he always paid for the damages afterwards, he was more than happy to put up with it. Dismas was in fact better than most of the patrons.

"He came in here a moment ago and started drinking. Chugged down a dozen shots and punched a guy, but his heart wasn't really in it. When he left, he wasn't walking funny, neither," the barkeep frowned.

"That ain't natural, now that I think about it. Never seen anyone drink that much and not get hammered. Oi! Get that one out of here!" the barkeeper interrupted himself to yell at a drunk who had begun to retch. Two of his friends obligingly grabbed him by the armpits and escorted him off.

"I'll go find him. Thanks," Reynauld said, turning to leave. He hopped nimbly over a pool of liquid on the ground. One of the patrons yelled out, "Hugh! You got a mop behind that counter?"

Reynauld left the tavern to the sound of cursing from the barkeeper. He wondered where exactly Dismas could have gotten to. Considering the display they just had, Reynauld mused about the possibilities. The two of them were both well-versed in ignoring horrific scenes, but in rather different ways. The Crusade had dehumanised their enemies, a rather effective technique for soldiers. Reynauld was unfamiliar with the bandits' technique, but he knew what his companion did. Dismas revelled in the combat. Not in the killing, but rather in the actions that led up to it. Dismas enjoyed the glory of the hunt, stalking his prey and preparing his equipment, before completing his task in a flurry of precise gunshots or blade strikes. His killing blows were always merciful and quick, but his planning was a display of meticulous overplanning. He figured the highwayman would be somewhere where he could practice his skills. Reynauld headed off into the thicket.

It was this that worried him about the Doctor and the Vestal. He knew Dismas very well, an inevitable result of having worked together for so long. The Doctor and the Vestal were upredictable, their ambitions a mystery. While their personalities were quite clear from what he had observed, he did wonder how they would handle under pressure. Junia had cracked somewhat at the sight of the skeleton, but from his experience, life-endangering situations could just as easily empower as they could hinder. Green recruits who trembled at the thought of killing became focused for the sake of survival. There was no time to think in combat, and that dampened the fear somewhat.

The Doctor's morbid interest in the skeleton was not of much surprise to Reynauld. It was an interesting combination of Dismas and Reynauld's viewpoints. He was clearly intrigued by the effects on the skeleton, and viewed it with a clincial detachment that was all too common among the Plague Doctors. The sights they had seen gave them few other options. They either entered the profession being able to ignore it, learnt it quick, or burnt out quickly. He had heard a story of a young Doctor, bright-eyed and idealistic, ready to assist the public however he could. Fifty bloated, rotting corpses later, his eyes had dimmed to match his patients. Two hundred, and he joined them in the mud.

In the midst of his reverie, and with him in the midst of a winding forest path with barely any light to them, Reynauld heard a deep guttural sound. He gripped his sword tightly and looked around, struggling to see in the fading light. After squinting vaguely around for a while, he decided to take the easy route. Reynauld raised his sword up vertically in front of him, and took a deep breath. Then an arm wrapped around his neck and dragged him bodily backwards.

Reynauld kicked and yelled as his captor pulled him backwards. The kicking was largely ineffectual as he was slightly above the ground, and his attempt at yelling was silenced by a a more familiar deep guttural sound.

"Reynauld, shut up," Dismas growled. Reynauld obediently complied. Dismas dropped his body like a sack of potatoes, and without the support, he dropped to the ground similarly. Reynauld got back up, dusting himself off, and looking at Dismas expectantly for an explanation. He had dropped to one knee, one hand outstretched and aiming his gun. Dismas' eyes were narrowed, examining something in the distance. Reynauld could see nothing, his vision hampered by the darkness and the thicket. Dismas fired the gun suddenly, in a seemingly random direction. The silence of the forest was disturbed by the thunk of metal lodging in flesh, and a howl of pain that silenced itself. Dismas grabbed a torch from his belt, and lit it with a flash of gunpowder. Grabbing an already considerably full sack from the ground nearby, he headed into the thicket. Had the torch not been there, Reynauld doubted he would have been able to track Dismas, let alone keep up with him. The grey overcoat blended into the darkness of their surroundings, the highwayman becoming a part of the formless mass.

Reynauld followed him as best as he could, given the encumbrance of the armor and his unfamiliarity with traversing thick wood. Finally they reached their destination. Dismas planted the torch firmly into the ground, and examined an object on the ground. Reynauld moved over to join him, and before him was a dead wolf, a single bullet hole lodged in its skull.

"Dismas, that was roughly fifty feet. In the dark, with a pistol." Reynauld turned to him, incredulous.

"I am a very, very good shot," Dismas responded. He dumped the wolf's corpse into his sack, and retrieved the torch. Reynauld could see his face contort into a self-satisifed grin under the neck scarf.

"So, why weren't you in the tavern, anyways?" Reynauld asked as they made their trek out of the forest, taking a more leisurely pace than they had before.

"I headed back, at which point the Doctor ambushed me to run errands. Ahem. _'You're far more suited to menial tasks than I am'_ or something," Dismas made an impressive impression of the Doctor by pushing his bandana closer to his mouth.

"When I explained that I had better things to do, he slammed that vial into my face," Dismas expounded.

"The one he used on the skeleton?" Reynauld asked. He suspected that it was not the same vial, based off Dismas' continued ownership of a face.

"Nah, the one he used back in the tavern. The sobering one."

"Oh, but if you weren't drunk yet, what'd it do to you?"

"Gave me a midlife crisis," Dismas deadpanned. Reynauld stopped for half a second, as still as the forest around him. Dismas turned to look at him, raising his eyebrows in mirth.

"Dismas..." Reynauld warned him, raising his sword higher. "One more terrible pun and I will stick this-"

"Yeah, yeah," Dismas waved him off, "It was good and you know it. Anyways, I popped back to the bar, but none of the drinks managed to get me, well, drunk. So now I'm here, collecting _'specimens'_ for the guy."

The thicket opened up into the civilzed world, small traces of light still coming from the tavern, the entire hamlet cloaked in darkness. Reynauld yawned, the rigors of the day taking its toll.

Dismas whistled an old tune the bands would play when the soldiers returned home as they headed to the tavern, now empty of customers.

"Dismas! Gone hunting?" the barkeep greeted as he wiped a glass in preparation for the next day's use.

"Yep. You want to clean this one? You can keep the pelt," Dismas rummaged through the sack and held up a brown rabbit, its pelt completely intact. Dismas had snuck up to it and broke its neck.

"Sure, I'll keep the meat back here for you. Cook it too, if you like," the barkeep nodded. Dismas was really one of his best customers, it seemed. Dismas handed the rabbit over,

They ascended the stairs quickly, and headed over to the Doctor's room. Dismas rapped on the door impatiently, his foot tapping on the floor, mirroring the rhythm.

After three minutes of silence, Reynauld was about ready to leave. Unfortunately, the door then opened.

"Ah, Dismas. That was rather faster than I had expected," the Doctor remarked, opening the door. Dismas raised the sack of corpses, the blood now beginning to soak through the sack.

"Hm, I think we might need a mop. Reynauld, mind checking with Hugh?" Dismas shifted himself slightly to avoid dripping blood onto his shoes. Reynauld grudgingly trudged back down the stairs, his armor becoming heavier with each step

"Do I smell rosewater?" Dismas sniffed the air.

"Sharp nose, as I'd expect from a lapdog," the Doctor snarked. Whether it was in good humour or not was unclear due to the mask, but Dismas let out a burst of his barking laughter.

"It's an ingredient for one of my chemicals. Part of the one I've been using on you, actually. On that topic, have you noticed any..." the Doctor's voice faded out as Reynauld reached the ground floor, its already muffled tone hampered by distance.

"Barkeep, you got a mop?" Reynauld asked. The barkeeper pointed to it, the mop looking rather the worse for wear, having stewed in a mix of vomit, beer, and some other unidentified fluids. Reynauld groaned at the sight, and promptly took the mop outside, holding it by the very end of the handle.

After an exceedingly through scrub of the mop in the pond, followed by an equally through scrub of any parts of his armour which could possibly have made contact with the mop, Reynauld dragged his fatigued body all the way back to the tavern, and ascended the stairs. Reynauld entered the final corridor of the top floor, and was just in time to see Dismas exit the Doctor's room, pocketing a few vials in his jacket.

"Hey Reynauld. What took you so long?" Dismas asked. Reynauld slapped him across the face with the wet mop.


	11. Breakfast

Reynauld woke up precisely at sunrise, as the first beams of light began to filter through the window. He sat in bed for a while, letting the sunrise mesmerise him. When the sky had morphed from a dark blue to a brilliant amber, his stomach grumbled and commanded him downstairs. Donning his armor and sword, he obediently followed his orders and entered the main area of the tavern.

The first thing that struck him was the smell of roasting meat. Proper meat, this time. The broth that had been offered to them previously was decent enough fare, but fresh, sizzling fat and meat was on an entirely different level. Greatly invigorated, Reynauld descended the stairs at a gallop.

It was early in the morning, and the locals had not yet made the journey for breakfast. The tavern was empty, excepting the three figures around the counter. Hugh was polishing a mug, but kept one eye on the other occupants to ensure they did nothing to harm his livelihood. The Doctor sat on one of the stools, perusing a large tome, likely medical in nature. Dismas was busy roasting meat, and a wonderous selection was on display. Duck, pheasant, and wolf were being cooked, coaxing the saliva from Reynauld's mouth, which threatened to leak out into his helmet

"Mornin' Reynauld. Have a nice rest?" Dismas called out. The Doctor nodded in greeting, which represented a level of affection that for most people would have been expressed by an overjoyed embrace. Hugh, not to be left out, waved with his free hand.

"I'll be properly rested after a good meal," Reynauld prompted.

"Hold your horses, I'm almost done," Dismas began pulling the cuts of meat off the fire. Soon enough, breakfast was served. Reynauld had received a sizable chunk of wolf meat, taken from the animal's flank. Hugh passed out some cutlery, Dismas handing some of the meat to him as a token of gratitude for the use of his premises. Reynauld cut into the meat, and a fresh wave of heavenly scent wafted up.

"How'd you get it to smell this good?" Reynauld asked.

"Don't credit me with that. All this is stuff the Doctor had left over after the experimenting. You want any?" Dismas held out a portion to the Doctor.

"No, just leave it there. I'll take some for later, I have some research to do," the Doctor declined.

"Rather interestingly, quite a few medicinal herbs also act as regular, taste improving herbs. Attribute the taste to that," the Doctor explained, not looking up from the book. Reynauld and Dismas tucked into the food ravenously, glad for the bountiful feast.

"So, tomorrow's dungeon time, eh?" Dismas said, words hindered by the meat he had stuffed in his mouth.

"Yeah, it's going to be interesting," Reynauld responded, his speech similarly inconvenienced.

"We still don't know the level of martial prowess these skeletons have though, which worries me," Reynauld noted. The skeleton had previously seemed confused by its surroundings, and had barely noticed their prescence.

"I'd wager it depends on how the hell they're moving in the first place," Dismas mused. "If we're fighting _the souls of those fallen in combat, summoned from beyond the graaaaaveee..._ Then they'd probably be really good at it."

"Why didn't that skeleton try to fight though? It didn't have a sword, but that wouldn't stop it from hand-to-hand." At this point, Reynauld's speech was interrupted by a clatter. The Doctor had retrieved the skull of the skeleton from within the never-ending robes of theirs, and placed it on the counter.

"I took some time to examine the skull. The ocular anatomy is vastly divorced from any other specimen I've examined previously. The humors have obviously long since decayed, but the retina is still intact. The blood vessels around the eye have been infected by some-" the Doctor went into an extremely complicated breakdown of their discoveries, which neither Reynauld or Dismas could understand. Still, the Doctor had such excitement in their tone that Reynauld could not quite bring himself to tell them.

"Doc, I don't understand anything you're saying," Dismas told him.

"Ah, yes," the Doctor seemed mildly embarrassed, showing a wider range of emotion in the last ten minutes than they had in the last day.

"Suffice it to say, their vision improves with the darkness. Strong enough light will blind them. Natural light is far more effective than artificial light in this regard. Fire will be a powerful ally," the Doctor summarized their findings with reference to the things Reynauld would find useful. He appreciated that.

"Which category would the light I make fall into?" he asked.

"The light... you make?" the Doctor asked.

"Yeah, I never quite got it either. I can make some light come off my sword if I recite a verse and focus a bit," he explained. The Doctor leaned forward and sat up a little straighter, intrigued.

"Care to demonstrate?" the Doctor asked.

"Hang on, let us finish the food," Reynauld responded. The Doctor looked down impatiently as the two wolfed down the remnants of their servings. When they were done, Reynauld looked around to take stock of their surroundings.

"It's a bit too bright to do it here though," Reynauld frowned.

"Well, let's go upstairs then. My quarters should be sufficiently dark," the Doctor grabbed the plate of meat and the skull.

"Not going to ask why?" Reynauld asked the Doctor as he followed.

"I find it easier to take these things in stride until after I have all the facts."

The Doctor's room was both similar, and opposed to Reynauld's own. They possessed a similar theme of ignoring aesthetics and focusing on utility. Where Reynauld had a spartan area, containing just a table, a bed, and a chest for his items, the Doctor's room was a lot more cluttered.

The room was dark, the windows blocked by heavy curtains, which Reynauld had not been given the luxury of having. Tiny beams of light attempted to enter, but failed to make an impact on the darkness. The same table was in the corner of the room, but the Doctor had filled it with a veriety of instruments and specimens. A dissected pigeon was still on the table, held in place with pins. Vials of mysterious liquids took up the rest of the surface, none of them labelled. Reynauld wondered how they would manage to explain anything visible in the room to the barkeeper, should he discover the contents. Or how they would explain the invisible things. Reynauld squinted in the dark to get a better look at one of them, gave up, and looked over to the Doctor.

"Can I do it now?"he asked. The Doctor nodded. Reynauld recited the familiar words: "Verse XXXVI: The Light shines brightest in darkness."

On that cue, a brilliant light shone from the hilt of his sword, banishing the shadows from the Doctor's room, sorely overpopulated with them. Reynauld, Dismas and the Doctor had little issue seeing despite the intensity of the glare. Then, as quickly as it had come, to light faded away.

"Intriguing. That was rather fleeting, however," the Doctor observed.

"I can control the power, but the stronger the light, the shorter the duration," Reynauld explained.

"Ah, now this is rather... illuminating. Does the radius of the light have the same constraints?" the Doctor asked, scribbling some notes in a nearby notebook. The notebook was being held in place by the skull,

"Hm, I've never actually tried that," Reynauld was rather surprised to find that out himself. He had only ever needed to use this skill to provide sufficient light for reading, brighten tunnels in enemy territory, and blind his enemies. In none of these cases had he ever needed to reduce the area the light spread. It would likely be blasphemous to suggest that the Crusaders should withhold the Light from being spread to anything at all, regardless of the metaphorical or literal context. Just one more crime against the church to add to the growing tally, he supposed.

He raised his sword again, and uttered the same line that had been etched into his memory by countless nights of rote memorization and recitation. The same light shone out, bright, all-encompassing and awe-inspiring, but not something anyone was excited to see.

"Damn, that's my fault. I, uh, don't quite know how I'm supposed to reduce how far the light goes," Reynauld admitted, annoyed with himself.

"No, I did nott really expect it to work either. I have little experience with such matters," the Doctor shrugged. "Light emanating from no visible source was strange enough, I thought it would not be much of a stretch to have it act contrary to all known laws of physics."

"Try focusing it, like you're going to attack an opponent," a third voice suddenly rang out. The two turned around quickly, as the voice was not Dismas'. Instead, Junia stood there, arms akimbo.

"How did you get in here?" the Doctor asked, rising immediately.

"Dismas left the door open. He's downstairs and looking rather happy with a second serving," Junia strolled into the room and walked in front of Reynauld.

"Pretend you're hitting something. Treat the Light as an extension of your own being. It will be natural, the way your sword must feel," Junia's voice was soothing, and Reynauld relaxed. His movements became focused and practiced, like the routines he performed during training. He closed his eyes and settled into position. On a whim, he struck the air with the hilt.

"There you go," Junia said. Reynauld opened his eyes, and in the air was a single glowing sphere of light, hovering in mid-air. Once Reynauld came to terms with existence, however, the orb winked out of existence.

"Ah, there's something we can use," the Doctor grabbed the skull, and placed it in on the table. Pulling out a series of strange implements, the Doctor turned around and began doing something, producing a series of stranger sounds.

"So, how did you know how to do that?" Reynauld asked, confusedly.

"Controlling the Light is my entire profession," Junia responded, as if it were the most logical thing in the world.

"Vestals... _control_ the light?" Reynauld asked, only yet more stupefied. The Light was something you prayed to, and perhaps if it favoured you, or your goals were aligned, it would deign to provide you with assistance. It was not something that you controlled, or could even rely on.

"That's... perhaps not the most accurate word," she looked vaguely uncomfortable. Reynauld decided to postpone the subject.

The Doctor turned around with a flourish, the skull now having a tiny hole in its temple. The Doctor jammed another implement, a complicated mess of lenses and wire, into the newly formed hole. The skull was placed inside a vice, and was wound shut to keep it in place.

"Reynauld, strike the skull with that same manoeuvre," the Doctor held his eye up to the lens, and motioned for him to act. Reynauld was afraid that he might damage the skull, blind the Doctor, or break some implement, but Doctor's orders superseded his concerns. The Doctor was oddly prescient of the results of many things they did, and he assumed this time would be no different.

He slammed the hilt of his sword into the skull, and nothing appeared to happen. The vice was strong enough to endure the hit, it seemed, and the skull was surprisingly sturdy, even after its acid treatment.

"Yes, that will blind a skeleton. A single flash will suffice, their sight will require some time to recover. I will need more data, however," the Doctor concluded from some evidence the rest of them could not see.

"Try mine," Junia offered. The Doctor paused for a second, then nodded. Junia grabbed her mace, and held it up in the air, a motion reminiscent of Reynauld's original sword movement. Then a bolt of light descended from the ceiling and shot down into the skull. This was bright enough to illuminate the room somewhat, which, while leaving Reynauld's eyes unscathed, began to make him weary of the constant changes in light.

"Less damaging to the skeleton's durability, but just as incapacitating," the Doctor noted. His free hand grabbed for a pen and scribbled down yet more notes. Reynauld peered over at it, but the scrawls were illegible.

"Alright, I've had rather enough of this. Let's go downstairs. Junia, have you had breakfast yet?" Reynauld asked, stretching. All this tinkering had likely taken large amounts of time, but he had no idea how much, due to the darkness of the room. He had intended to do other things during the day, however, and so needed to cut it short. Junia shook her head and headed for the door as well. The Doctor patted his robes, muttered something about forgetting his book, and trailed behind.

The morning crowd was just being sent off, and Dismas was patting them on the back on their way out. Those comely women who had accompanied their relatives for the morning meal received a surreptitious pat on the rump, instead.

"Ah, you're finally done then!" Dismas waved in greeting. "Junia, have you had breakfast yet?"

"Nope, and I'm starving," Junia responded. Reynauld was rather confused at their cheery moods.

"Well, I've run out of that meat. Oh, hang on. Hugh!" Dismas called over the barkeeper. "Where's that rabbit from earlier?"

"Rabbit?" the Doctor asked.

"In there," Hugh pointed back to a door behind the counter. Dismas headed inside. Shortly after, he came out.

"Reynauld, Doc, Junia, get in here," he called out. Dismas held lingering eye contact with Reynauld, and cracked his neck. This was their signal for delicate situations.

The three went into the room, which was used to store aging meat. Cuts of lamb and beef hung from the racks, bought from the neighboring towns. Dismas strode past all of them to the far end of the rack. There, the rabbit hung, having been cleaned of organs and left to age, like the others. Where it differed, however, was the growth of sickening pustules, some of them which had burst, and dripped their contents onto the floor.


	12. Preserving Purity

The Doctor silently pulled the rabbit off the hook, and knelt down on the floor, gazing intently at the pool of fluid.

"Doc, have we... been eating that?" Reynauld asked, cautiously. If their next answer was not satisfactory, he could foresee the hopes of a coordinated team crashing to the ground.

"No, not this. The reason I had asked Dismas to retrieve the specimens was to examine the severity of the corruption," the Doctor explained, filling a vial from within their cloak with the mysterious fluid.

"The herbs I put in the meat disinfected it, but this has not received the same treatment," the Doctor put the rabbit corpse into a sack from within their robes, and placed the entire thing inside again. Based on the Doctor's robes and their approximate mass, those robes contained a portal to an alternate dimension.

"Dismas, inform me next time you want a cut of the rewards. I'm not opposed to it, but I work with some rather hazardous things that cannot be handled so recklessly,"

"That's not-" Dismas started.

"Throw that away, would you?" the Doctor mopped the floor with a rag, and tossed that into a small leather satchel, which he handed to Reynauld.

"Wait, all the food here is contaminated?" Reynauld asked.

"Yes. Would you all try to keep up?" the Doctor snapped back.

"What's going to happen to the townspeople?" Reynauld asked, standing in front of the door to block the Doctor's exit.

"Depends on where they obtain their sustenance. If they have been hunting in the forest, then I would be surprised they have lasted this long already," the Doctor replied, manner-of-factly.

"Why are you being so nonchalant about this, this is serious!" Junia barked out. "People could die!"

"People always die. I don't see how this is my problem," the Doctor sniffed.

"Isn't this... your job?" Junia responded. Reynauld thought he saw the Doctor stiffen slightly. The Doctor moved to leave, but Reynauld poked a finger into their chest, withdrawing it hastily when he felt the squishy flesh of the rabbit. The Doctor hopped back, and brushed themself off.

"We cannot leave these people in the lurch, Doctor. We are supposed to help them," Junia insisted.

"The last time I read my contract, my only duty here was to rid this place of the evils that plague it. This is not my responsibility. Perhaps it is yours, but do not force it onto me."

"Think about it this way," Reynauld stepped firmly in between Junia and the Doctor. "These people are our support network. If they all die to... whatever this is, then the deliveries will stop. We cannot fight... whatever's down there unless we have this support," Reynauld insisted firmly. This was what made the Doctor stop to think.

"I'll have a list of what herbs are required by the end of the day. I trust you can handle proceedings afterwards?" Reynauld nodded in response. The Doctor then stalked off, rather anti-climatically.

"I need a drink," Dismas shot out of the room and into the pub.

"Do you really think of them that way?" Junia asked Reynauld. He grimaced slightly.

"Telling someone like that about death and suffering is pointless. He'll have seen far too much of it for it to carry much weight."

"Becoming that jaded... I have no small amount of sympathy," Reynauld explained. Junia looked off into the distance.

"Well, ready for training?" Reynauld stretched himself out, already feeling tired from the morning's events.

"I haven't had breakfast," Junia complained.

Five minutes later, Junia was sat at the bar, eating a meal consisting of whatever Hugh had managed to whip up from whatever the patrons had not already consumed during the morning rush. This meant mainly vegetables, but Junia happily chowed down on it anyways. It was likely a good step up from the standard Church fare anyways. Reynauld had fond memories of ignoring his superior's orders and going hunting with his squadmates to get some meat to supplement their meals. Their superiors could often close one eye, since they would then open their mouth and receive a share of the bounty.

"Alright, I'm done," Junia wiped her mouth and hopped off the stool. The two of them headed off to the training building, Reynauld pausing to solicit a promise from Dismas that he would do some modicum of practice that day. Dismas waved him off, tossing a dart into a dartboard with pinpoint precision.

"Done."

They entered the facility, as dark and musty as always. Reynauld estimated that it was a bit past noon, which meant that they had spent six hours in the tavern. Not very efficient. The facility was the same way, though purely caused by disuse. The windows were boarded up, but it had reached a state in which even the boards had begun falling off. The floor was coated with dust, though the layer was disturbed from their various activities from the day before. A particular spot on the floor had dollops of white on it, which Reynauld resolved not to remind Junia about.

"Everything around this place seems to need dusting off," Junia ran a finger down a chair, then rubbed off the layer of dust that formed in disgust.

"We can get around to that after our foray into the ruins, I think. That'll have to take top priority," Reynauld walked around the facility, sizing it up more now that there was no skeleton to worry about.

Bookshelves lined one wall of the hall, as dusty as their surroundings. They were largely devoid of their supposed contents. The books had probably been taken by the townsfolk when the place had been shut down. It was still worth checking out. Villagers often had no clue as to the value of such items. There were some small rooms off to the sides, but the hall took up the largest amount of space, chock-full of targets and dummies. Interestingly enough, there was a stage at the front of the building, for whatever purpose. Perhaps in happier times, the building had been a theatre of some sort. Reynauld looked upon the building wistfully. The borders of Europe where the Crusades were fought were not the only place where civilian life had been disrupted for a war.

"Reynauld, should we get on with it?" Junia's voice snapped him out of his reverie.

"Ah, yeah," Reynauld turned to see Junia, with mace raised. He hefted his sword and watched her carefully.

"I worked out your fighting style from back when we first sparred, and I can tell your weakness," Reynauld told her, shifting his weight back and forth in preparation. When Junia charged him, as he expected, he rolled under the swing of her mace.

"No offense, but you fight like a nun. Stunning blows, knockout finishers, and being a tad too aggressive," Reynauld hopped backwards as Junia attacked ferociously. At the final point of her blow, Reynauld blocked with his sword and swiftly transitioned into a strike on Junia's head with the hilt. Their previous fight had taken him off guard, but now Reynauld was more prepared. A trained swordsman, he could change his fighting style to counter his opponent's on a whim.

"I want you to try to kill me," Reynauld told her, firmly. Junia's eyes widened for a second.

"It's not going to work, but I need to see it happen," Reynauld reinforced. In that same vein, Reynauld muttered a few lines to himself, and his armor sat a little steadier on him, glowing dimly. He rolled his shoulders, moved his sword into guard, and looked steadfastly at Junia.

She was uneasy now, a far cry from her previous self. Reynauld had seen this far too many times in new recruits. The act of killing was the final barrier that they had to go through before becoming full-fledged soldiers. Whether to call it battle-hardened or traumatised was a matter of politcal semantics, which Reynauld refused to take part in. Junia gripped her mace and began advancing towards him, and he nodded.

"You can't seriously..." Junia began. Reynauld cocked his head, and her mouth snapped shut again. She swung, half-heartedly, against the side of his helmet. He felt the blow, but his armour barely moved.

"You can't kill, Junia. Whether that's good or bad is your own decision to make, but it's something we have to work around," Reynauld grimaced under his helmet. He could easily turn her into a killer. He had done it before. He didn't want to anymore.


	13. Almost to the Abyss

I was just checking through the rest of the Darkest Dungeons stories. Turns out I am the worst at the tone of this world. Ah well, I hope to make up for that with story. I came up with the story for this back in early access, so be prepared for the story to be both similar and different to the official.

* * *

They had done it. It had taken them long enough for the sun to dip down into the ocean, the soft orange glow lending an eerie beauty to the normally ominous area. The view of the hamlet was far more impressive after navigating the thicket that normally obscured it from sight. As for what they had achieved, Reynauld had finally settled on a way to make Junia effective in combat. It was simple enough that Reynauld was surprised he had not figured it out sooner. Her healing powers worked quickly enough that she could easily keep the team going, even while in open combat. The usefulness of this was compounded by their few other viable methods of healing. They established this with a short chat with the doctor.

"Doctor, how would you heal a broken leg?" Reynauld popped his head into the Doctor's room.

"A horse's? Put the owner down," the Doctor responded drily, never looking up from their curious work. With their other hand, they tossed a slightly less gigantic scroll than the last time. This was, presumably, the list of ingredients needed to purify meat.

"A human's, Doctor," Reynauld confirmed.

"Wrap it up in a splint, and-" the Doctor began.

"Alright, bye!" Reynauld left down the stairs, leaving the Doctor to twitch annoyedly before closing their door.

It was the experimentation to discover exactly how much more efficient it was that Reynauld had not enjoyed. The hamlet was not exactly filled with farmers who had cut themselves on a hoe, and so Reynauld reluctantly agreed to act as the test subject. This involved repeated self-harm which normally would have invited a visit from a priest and perhaps a witch-burning. After enough blood loss to feed a parasitic demon horde on a rampage, they finally had an idea of the extent of her abilities. The healing would mend flesh and sinew with a glow that seemed like healing magic refused to pay a graphics artist. It was enough to keep someone moving through a dungeon, but they would need some proper care after returning to the hamlet, after the adrenaline stopped pumping, and the thrill of battle wore off.

Reynauld had since left Junia in the abbey to perform some unspecified act. He elected to check on the heir, who had retired to his quarters and not emerged since their first foray into the hamlet. It was rather critical to his continued livelihood to keep his employer happy, after all. Thus, Reynauld took the walk to the rather isolated building in which the heir had chosen to work out of. It seemed odd to Reynauld that he would choose to be apart from the residents, but questioning your employer was a rather pointless exercise.

The trek had lasted long enough for the sun to descend below the horizon, and full darkness had settled on the hamlet. Reynauld knocked on the door, the metal of his gauntlets making a satisfying thump against the wooden door. The chariot driver opened it, apparently having a multitude of duties in the small hamlet. Dressed in pajamas and a small nightcap, the caretaker squinted disapprovingly at Reynauld, a candle in hand. Reynauld mentally compared the image to the Plague Doctor, and stifled a laugh.

The caretaker led him to the heir's office, then trundled off to bed, grumbling the whole time about how he was not paid enough, and that his contract did not extend to such late hours. Reynauld mused that his contract had included no such clause on his working hours. He rather regretted letting Dismas vet the contracts now. He had likely been too eager to find work after the drought of it they had weathered for so long. Not that Dismas was a bad bargainer, but he had worked in the enviroment of a bandit camp, where work was a matter of necessity. Reynauld was a man of routine, and where the military had offered an ordered day-to-day schedule, and his adventures through the country with Dismas were living by survival's rules, the large amount of freedom he was now being offered made him rather edgy. At least in the military he had had plausible deniability as to why he had not followed certain orders. Still, he was the only one fit for the job, and he was loathe to step down from a challenge. Dismas, in his head, told him not to let his 'contrived sense of pride' override good sense. Reynauld stoically ignored him.

Reynauld knocked on the door again, attempting to rouse the heir. After a lengthy period of no response, Reynauld pushed the door open. The heir sat at his table, head resting on his arm. His head shifted repeatedly, muttering to himself. Reynauld was no stranger to nightmares, so did his best to alleviate his troubles. Reynauld nudged the man in the back, and he arose from his slumber, looking back and forth frantically. Beads of sweat rolled down his brow, the man looking rather distressed, to say the least. The heir caught sight of Reynauld, and let out a sigh of relief.

"Nightmares?" Reynauld asked.

"Yes," the heir replied.

"I'll not ask," Reynauld affirmed.

"Thank you," the heir expressed.

Reynauld spent some time outlining the discoveries of the last few days. The skeletons were no big surprise, but the heir was glad to hear of their progress nonetheless. When they had reached the infected animals, the heir was rather surprised.

"I had thought the... defilement was constrained to the ruins. This is a... troubling development." The heir looked over the papers on his desk.

"I have spent the last few days attempting to decrypt my father's notes. It is rather difficult. Many of them are filled merely with daily mutinae, written in his personal shorthand, or just have terrible penmanship. I highly suspect it was mostly created to bury the important details under a pile of nonsense," the heir gathered the papers up and placed them into a corner, retrieving a new sheet of paper and a quill.

"Enough about that. Now, what is your opinion on the others?" the heir leaned forward, tapping his quill gently against his finger.

"Sorry?" Reynauld asked. He was unsure how disparaging or congratulatory he should be. In other words, whether the heir intended to respect his opinion or needed confirmation.

"The Doctor and the Vestal. There will be more coming to the hamlet, and we cannot afford to keep anyone who is not carrying their own weight," the heir replied.

' _The former, then,_ ' Reynauld thought.

"The Doctor first. Sharp, intelligent, cynical, but pragmatic. Essentially what I would expect from a Plague Doctor. The chemical and anatomical understanding he offers will be invaluable. Come to think of it, where did you find a Plague Doctor so far from the pestilence?" Reynauld asked. It was a question that had plagued him since the first time he had seen the Doctor.

"That would be just the thing. He found me, instead. Shortly after I had received the letter from my father, and had made my arrangements to come here, I received a message from the Doctor. He asked to come along to the hamlet, and I was hardly in a position to refuse," the heir explained.

"Odd character, isn't he?" the heir asked. Reynauld nodded, but was unsure how precisely to explain it.

"He's the smartest one in the room, but he refuses to enlighten the rest of us, annoyingly enough," Reynauld explained.

"Rather a fair assessment. The Vestal?" the heir prompted, writing something down.

"Junia is... squeamish. She's not comfortable with killing, which rather seems like a job requirement here. We're not likely to come across any better method of healing, though," Reynauld noted.

"Ah yes, she is a different puzzle entirely, A favour for one of my friends in the church, the Apolistic Vicar of the London District, Leyburn. She was reportedly a... hang on, I swear I have it here somewhere," the heir turned around and rummaged through some papers.

"It seems to have vanished. I could have sworn I put it here..." the heir flicked through the papers, then shurgged and turned back to Reynauld.

"Junia was sent here because she was 'problematic' for the Church. Make of that what you will. I do not now much more than that, though. Leyburn had been rather insistent on not revealing anything else, just that I needed to bring her here."

"That is odd," Reynauld agreed. Junia had not seemed distinct from a regular vestal. The removal of any member of the church took a huge transgression to ever be warranted. Reynauld had experienced more than enough of that in the crusades. Having a Vestal removed from the church? That was curious.

"Well, I suppose it is too early to ask you for a fully formed opinion. I'll ask you again after the mission into the dungeon," the heir stretched and walked over to the window, looking out over the hamlet. Reynauld followed him dutifully.

"Do you think this place can be saved, Reynauld?" the heir looked out over the manor wistfully.

"We don't know what we're up against yet," Reynauld responded, quietly.

"No, no we don't," the heir looked forward, a troubled expression settling on his face, illuminated by the moonlight. Reynauld stepped forward and clasped an armoured hand on the heir's shoulder.

"We'll find out."


	14. Dungeon Romp

Rather long hiatus, rather long installment as recompense.

Reynauld disliked the darkness. The gloom lurked and seethed behind nooks and crannies, threatening to unleash all manner of malevolent thug and slavering beast. Darkness was the ally of the ambush, and perhaps it said more about Reynauld than the world that he had come to associate the two. Nonetheless, having to wake up before sunrise to take the trek to the ruins put Reynauld on edge.

Reynauld lit a candle on the desk, providing a dim glow by which to navigate his tasks. To start, he strapped his armour on, taking especial care to ensure everything was in order. This next expedition would accept no mistakes, no missteps. It was Reynauld's job to match that expectation. He checked his sword, gleaming softly in the dim light, and made his way downstairs.

Dismas and Junia were in the bar, eating stew from bowls. Reynauld ladled himself a serving and sat down beside them.

"Mornin' Reynauld," Dismas acknowledged. The highwayman leaned over his breakfast, eating it with a thoughtful look on his face. Junia nodded at Reynauld, her meal already finished.

"Where's the Doctor?" he asked.

"He was already done eating by the time I got down here. Went off to load the carriage with some supplies, apparently," Dismas offered through mouthfuls of stew.

The rest of the meal proceeded in stoic silence. Reynauld was unsure what to expect in the ruins, and a nagging voice in the back of his head berated him for not preparing throughly enough. He shushed it. Last minute preparation was usually detrimental.

Reynauld finished his meal and put his helmet back on, leaving the bar with a grateful wave to Hugh for the fare. The carriage was outside, the caretaker loading packs onto the back under the watchful eye of the doctor.

"Hey Doctor, are these the supplies?" Reynauld asked, hefting one of the packs. A shovel was strapped to the side, along with a small skin of water. Flipping over the flap, the bag contained a few vials of holy water, some dried meat, and a few torches.

"Indeed. That one is yours," the Doctor told him, tossing a series of vials into their own pack. Reynauld wondered what manner of reinforcement the glass had received to be able to take such punishment. Then again, it was rather more important that the glass should break when it was intended to.

"Manage to get any use out of the vestal?" the Doctor inquired, holding a vial up to the soft moonlight.

"Yes, actually. That healing of hers is rather effective." The Doctor snorted softly in response, shaking their head.

"Oh, yes, this fabled curative prowess of our clothed friend," he sneered.

"Don't shoot the messenger, Doctor. You'll see it soon enough, anyways," Reynauld tossed the pack back into the carraige.

"I still find it difficult to stomach. Shall she cleanse a leper next? Perhaps she shall exorcise a demon from me and lead me back into the flock," the Doctor finally looked up, pausing their incomprehensible work.

"Not a believer?" Reynauld cocked his head at him.

"No, not in an untested stack of hogwash written by uneducated fools," the Doctor bit back sharply. Reynauld merely shrugged in response. His faith was strong enough for him, and the crusades had shown him the folly of proselytization. Dismas was likewise still a non-believer, despite many long, tedious discussions. Reynauld made a mental note to never let Junia know their fellows were not of the faith. He shuddered to think of the consquences.

In a stroke of good fortune, Junia and Dismas presently emerged from the inn, having sated their hunger. Dismas wiped absentmindedly at a small stain on his scarf, as Junia stretched out the kinks in her neck.

"Ready?" Reynauld surveyed the other members of his party, to receive a series of nods. The caretaker waved from the corner of his eye. The four of them hauled themselves onto the carriage, the old wood groaning under the strain of their weight. The caretaker whipped the horses, and the carriage began its journey to the ruins.

Dismas sat beside Reynauld, hunched over slightly with his face in his hands. He shook gently with the rolls and bumps of the carriage, silently preparing for the task ahead. Junia was flipping through the Versebook, muttering to herself. Reynauld, for lack of anything better to do, elected to talk shop with the Plague Doctor.

"Find out anything new about the skeletons since we last talked?" Reynauld leaned across the carriage.

"No, nothing of note. I do expect I will have far more material to work with after today's endavours."

"Makes me uneasy, going into combat without a solid idea of what we're up against," Reynauld frowned.

"I understand. Fighting these skeletons will be harder than regular humans by quite a bit. For one, the bone will take more force to defeat than flesh. Where a normal human could fall to slices and slashes, the bone needs to be cleaved through to do any permanent damage. Your sword will be less than effective."

"No need to worry about that. I have a bit of a theory regarding the skeletons myself," Reynauld looked over his sword.

"So, will blunt impact weapons still be able to incapacitate them with fractures?" Reynauld inquired further.

"Without a specimen I hesitate to give an answer, but based on what we have seen thus far, that should work," the Doctor responded.

"Dismas, your daggers aren't good for skeletons," Reynauld called out, without looking over.

"Noted," Dismas muttered into his hands.

The rest of the ride proceeded in stoic silence, Reynauld twiddling his thumbs as the carriage lurched and rocked with the bumps in the road. The road rolled by in the open back of the carriage, the trees blurring together in a mess of green and brown.

At the very least, the sun had began to rise, and that put Reynauld in a markedly better mood. The glow filtered gently through the branches of the trees, casting the quickly moving route in spotty, uncertain patches of light. Any light at all was a welcome reminder, however, and Reynauld was gladder for it.

Then at last, the carriage emerged from the shaded thicket, and burst into the brilliant sunlight, below the cliff where the manor stood. A scant few moments and the four alighted, shouldering their packs and stretching to work out the kinks in their joints. The Doctor stood by with their carrying case, as businesslike as ever. Dismas, now, was awakened for combat, and his eyes darted about, scanning the area for an early ambush. Reynauld thought this was somewhat unlikely, but then again, he was the more conventional fighter of the two.

Junia and the Doctor took the scene in. It was nothing new to the other two, they having come here before. Still, the land had seemed to change, as if sensing their intentions today were rather more malignant. Malice, rather than mere curiousity drove them now, and the ruins wished to drive them back.

Reynauld shook his head at himself, annoyed. In the crusades, enemy territory had made him uneasy. Even once captured. It was especially mosques that made him uneasy. They nearly always held strategic zones, areas of importance. Still, trespassing on such ground, on a place of worship, felt wrong to him. It was no different here. The ruins of the manor, crumbling and broken as they were, felt like the holy ground of a god who wished him gone. Then again, Reynauld had not sieged an enemy base since the crusades. Perhaps he had come to associate the two. After all, what god could possibly have consecrated this place? Did the undead have priests of their own? His head ran wild with naggingly persistent tomfoolery. He quashed it, best he could.

The place had a somber beauty to it. He leaned over the edge of the cliff, not straying too far from the group, or the land. The waves crashed against the rocks below, spraying up impressive showers of foam. The cool ocean breeze enticed Reynauld to remove his helmet for a few moments, before sobering up properly and turning to the rest of his group.

Dismas was cleaning his guns, having since ascertained the safety of their surroundings. Junia was kneeling on the grass with book in hand, muttering verses to herself. The Doctor leaned against the entrance of the ruins, tapping their foot on the ground impatiently.

Reynauld tapped Dismas and Junia on their shoulders and walked forward to the entrance of the ruins. He breathed in deeply, his hand on the wall leading in towards the foreboding darkness. He took a deep breath of the fresh air, and crossed the threshold into the ruins.

He took a few steps down the stairs, his footsteps growing increasingly unsure with each entrance into the dim corridor. He was relieved to hear the striking of a match behind him, and a torch flared into brilliant life behind him. Junia held the torch in her left hand, her right hand dangling beside where her mace was strapped to her belt. They proceeded into the ruins, the slick stonework around them glowing a dull orange to reflect the light from the torch.

"Alright people, recon only. We explore the first level as much as we can, then get out. Understood?" Reynauld said, pulling his longsword into guard position. The others behind him murmured affirmations, drawing their various weapons.

The corridor ended in heavy stone double doors, the crest of the manor carved into the front. Reynauld sidled up beside the door, pressing his body into the doorframe. Dismas aimed down the sights of his gun into the room.

"Junia, take the other side of the door. Doc, get one of your acid vials. On my mark, we bust open the doors. Ready?" Reynauld asked.

"Stun or kill?" the Doctor asked, their voice and shadowed mask yet more disturbing in the low light.

"Kill," Reynauld nodded. Junia got on the other side of the door, mace prepared.

"Three, two, one... mark." In sync, Reynauld and Junia pushed open the doors, Junia using her elbow to avoid dropping the torch. The doors, groaning from their long periods of disuse, flung themselves open, revealing the darkness of their room to the piercing light of the torches.

Two skeletons, one bulkier than the other, turned to look as the doors swung through their full range of motion and slammed into the neighboring walls. The heavier skeleton was possessed of an armoured vest, and Dismas' aim snapped to it. He fired off a shot, slamming into the skeleton's skull and blowing it to smithereens. The second skeleton was less protected, and the Doctor made their move, tossing the vial of acid at the skeleton, with the expected results. The skeleton collapsed to the ground, the acid sizzling as it did its brutal work.

Reynauld moved into the room, longsword extended. The room was empty but for a dust-covered table in the centre, around which the skeletons had been clustered. Reynauld looked around, and raised his hand to signal the others to enter.

Reynauld was grabbed suddenly, a bony arm twisting itself about the front of his helmet. Frankly, it was only vaguely uncomfortable for him, but the hold was firm, and his struggling did not dislodge the arm. He let out a few muffled yells, but had no way of knowing if any of his allies had been notified. The skeleton's grip was deceptively strong for something with no muscles, he noted. Then, out of the breathing holes in his helmet, a curious liquid dripped onto his face. After the first few drops, he slammed his mouth shut, but he could already tell something was peculiar.

"Hold still," Dismas barked out, and Reynauld complied, feeling the liquid run down his neck. The ever-familiar gunshot rang out, cracking unusually loudly in the confined room. Reynauld felt the grip on himself loosen, and he tore himself out of the skeleton's grip. He staggered over to the nearest wall, and ripped his helmet off, gasping and taking in deep gulps of air.

"You alright there?" Reynauld heard Dismas' voice, distorted and slow. He turned around to face him, and for a second the world was distorted. Just as quickly, however, it was gone, and Reynauld was left wondering what it was that had changed, if anything at all.

"I'm fine," Reynauld wiped the remains of the liquid from his face with the back of his gauntlet, the metal doing little to help. Dismas helpfully wiped his face with a blue scarf, different from the red one he wore around his neck.

"Why do you have two scarves?" he asked. Dismas shrugged unhelpfully. Reynauld put his helmet back on, and headed over to the remains of the skeleton, which the Doctor was kneeling over.

The skeleton had been stripped of its robes, a beautifully embroided purple affair which had not taken the passage of time well. The body itself had been cast to one side and ignored, the Doctor busy carefully collecting as much of the liquid as possible.

"Any ill effects, Reynauld?" the Doctor asked, eyes still aimed down.

"Nothing major, but I didn't take much, either."

"Hm," the Doctor muttered, emptying what they had collected into a test tube. The Doctor picked up a goblet which laid upturned on the floor, and wrapped it in the robes, stuffing the entire package into their pack.

"Where's Junia?" Reynauld asked.

"Over by the bookshelves," the Doctor responded, retrieving more vials and carrying out their inscrutable work. Reynauld headed over to a wall of bookshelves, where Dismas and Junia stood, looking over the volumes.

"I don't know how safe reading these books can be..." Junia muttered.

"I thought your kind loved books," Dismas smirked.

"Look, they're dubious tomes in the middle of a long abandoned dungeon. Nothing good can come from this," she insisted, annoying the snark.

"More likely, they're all treatises on bunny feeding. Or fifteen copies of the Kama Sutra."

"Gross," Junia recoiled visibly.

"Surprised you know what it is."

"You didn't have to bring it up."

"Just telling it how it is. Rich people don't buy books because they actually use them. They buy books because they think they look impressive. Display shelf filler."

"... and how you would know what rich people own in their bookcases?"  
"... I've had occasion to look them over."

"Taking some in the process?" Junia raised a skeptical eyebrow. Dismas shrugged noncommittally. She shook her head in annoyance, letting out an audible sigh.

"Look, I'll just flip through one, alright?" Dismas grabbed a random book from the shelf.

"Don't do it," Junia gripped his wrist.

"Reynauld, tell her she's being paranoid," Dismas groaned.

"Tell him he should be cautious in an unholy ground," Junia countered. Reynauld's eye twitched under his helmet.

"Just read it, Dismas," Reynauld waved his hand to give him the go ahead. Junia shot him a glare, to which he responded, "If I tried to stop him, he would just steal one and read it later, when we aren't watching him. Better off that he do it while we're here with him."

"Have any of you located an exit? This appears to be a dead-end," the Doctor remarked.

"I mean, this looks like a basement to the manor. I'm sure there's an entrance to the tunnels somewhere," Reynauld looked around again, but there was little of note. A bunk bed in the corner, a table in the centre, and a few bookshelves made up the entire room. An extra servant's quarters, perhaps.

"We could ascend to the surface and search for another entry," the Doctor suggested.

"We could," Reynauld agreed. "I'd rather not have to break out the shovels, but if there's no other way..."

"I loathe to think the only ingress would be extensive manual labour, but these tunnels would have to be old to contain cadavers like these. The robes the last one was wearing must be at least a hundred years old, maybe more depending on the conditions," the Doctor nodded once slowly.

"How do you think they got up here?" Junia frowned. Reynauld and the Doctor turned to look at her, and then Reynauld snapped his fingers, the metal making an unimpressive thunk.

"There has to be an entrance here, then," Reynauld said.

"Or, the skeletons have been navigating out of the manor,' the Doctor cut in. Junia and Reynauld turned to them now, even Dismas glancing up from what had to be a rather engrossing text.

"Why would they leave the manor just to return?" Reynauld questioned.

"Do we know anything about their motives?" the Doctor replied.

"No, I think there's an entrance here," Dismas spoke up, snapping the book shut,

"How do you figure?" Reynauld asked.

"For one, any reason for the skellies to be wandering out of here would have them head to the hamlet. Sacrifices, rituals, dare I say reproduction? The townspeople would have some rumours of them at least, and I have not heard anything from them. Then there's the age of all the skeletons we've seen. Doc's told us that they're all bloody old, which doesn't make sense if whatever is bringing all these guys back to life has spread out, so they pretty much have to be cloistered in here," Dismas rattled off.

"That is quite a leap of logic," the Doctor commented. Dismas, staring head on at the doctor, grabbed a book on the shelf with his outstretched left arm. He pulled on the book, and a catch was heard, the bookshelf sliding slowly away from Dismas. He jerked his hand backwards to point at the shelf, and did a theatrical bow, to which Junia gave a theatrical clap.

"Any other reason?" Reynauld asked.

"I found a map in the book," Dismas admitted, holding it up in his left hand. Reynauld chuckled and grabbed the map from him, looking it once over.

"Ready to move?" Reynauld asked the group, and received affirmations. He turned and headed down the corridor.

"So what was in the book that kept you reading it so long, anyways?" he heard Junia ask Dismas behind him.

"It was the Kama Sutra," Dismas admitted.


	15. THE FRENCH

I have nothing against the French. Dismas does.

* * *

Soldiers feared combat. Obsessed about it. Every waking hour was spent in fear of its appearance, that it might reach out from the shadows and seize men from the land of the living.

Reynauld knew the real problem wasn't the combat. Fighting an enemy was often merely the practice of prepared routines. There was no time to be afraid, not when adrenaline and training took over.

Before, though, fear ruled men's minds. Imaginations ran wild, shaping brutes from shadows. The toil of holding a weapon at the ready slowly surpassed that of swinging it, the eyes begging to close after flickering back and forth along the same scenery.

Then once the adrenaline ran off, the soreness of the muscles came into focus. Blood and sweat were sandwiched between skin and metal, wounds festering under patchwork repair. Yet the march continued.

He had not expected this group's response to the stresses though.

"Okay, okay, okay. Doctor, would you rather eat a dead rat, or a live worm?" Dismas asked, dismantling his gun with one hand. Their path through the tunnels had been entirely uneventful, the most dangerous encounter with an oversized rat. It had been swiftly dispatched by a knife to the neck, the Doctor insisting that they had 'done it more than enough times'.

"That depends, how long has the rat been dead?" the Doctor inquired.

"I didn't consider that," Dismas noted thoughtfully.

"A few hours, then?" Junia suggested.

"Long enough for rigor mortis. Hmm," the Doctor murmured. "What conditions has it been exposed to?"

"I did not think this that far through," Dismas grumbled, looking down into his work. Dismas was busy cleaning his guns again, an action which Reynauld swore was almost ritualistic. Reynauld himself was busy cleaning his armour, so he figured it was rather hypocritical to say anything.

"Shall we cease the hypotheticals then?" the Doctor held up the dead rat, treated with their customary cocktail of herbs and roasted over the fire. The whole thing was roughly the size of a dog, though dirt had made up a tenth of its size. Rations were the fuel of any fighting force, and Reynauld was not inclined to waste it. Harvesting the local meat was an acceptable risk to take.

"Hang on, Doctor. I didn't say anything about cooking the thing. This is unfair," Dismas complained.

"Well, I saved a sample of the beast," the Doctor gestured at an unappetizing piece of red gunk, barely recognizable as meat.

"What's that?" Dismas recoiled.

"The brain. Don't be shy now, eat up," the Doctor said, to Junia's laughter. Reynauld shook his head and dug into his meal. The consumption of the food proceeded in silence, Junia insisting on eating the rations they had brought, instead of their new bounty.

"Sleep well, I'll take first watch," Reynauld told the others, sitting up against the wall.

The unsetting feeling built itself up as he stared into the dark. The hostility of the place was evident now that the chatter of his companions had ended. The silence and darkness combined together, leaving Reynauld aware only of his own breathing and the wall against his back. The fear of the dark that had haunted him from his childhood compounded his problems. Still, Reynauld had not gone so long with his demons without learning to cope.

The nagging annoyance returned, gnawing at the back of Reynauld's mind. This place was either holy or unholy, and neither option was particularly appealing. Still, even if there were a god to worship, could the undead manage? Some rituals and observances were well within their capabilities, but Reynauld doubted the souless could consume the communion wafers.

Then again, that skeleton had carried wine. For what purpose, he could not imagine. Reynauld smacked his lips together curiously. The taste still lingered, or perhaps he merely recalled a strong memory. He hadn't paid it any heed earlier, but the acrid tang of the wine now stuck out clearly in his mind. It would be interesting to get a hold of more of the liquid for the Doctor to examine. The taste of the thing intrigued him as well, since it hadn't tasted like any he had before. Then again, Reynauld was the last person who should be identifying wines.

A scrape of bone and rock snapped Reynauld rudely from his reverie. He squinted into the darkness, but was completely unable to discern one formless mass from another. It didn't matter, anyways. Reynauld grabbed his sword and slammed it into the dark with a roar. The figures turned to face him, and he could properly make out three of them.

The sword swung forth and collided against the first skeleton's sword with a clang. As expected, steel which had been oiled and cared for won out against that which had been left to weather the elements for years. The skeleton's sword gave out and snapped, followed swiftly by its ribs. He kicked the skeleton's body off his sword with a thump, and readied his sword again.

The other two skeletons were distinctly more prepared, one stepping forward with a shield. Its compatriot raised a crossbow, aiming it at Reynauld. However, they didn't expect Dismas. Surging up behind them, a flash of a knife knocked the shield away, and a gunshot shattered the crossbowman's hand. The shieldbearer staggered from the unexpected angle of attack, leaving a gap wide enough for Reynauld to thrust his greatsword through its spine.

Dismas pulled his bandana down from his mouth and grinned wildly at Reynauld. Unbeknownst to their attackers, Reynauld's roar had signalled Dismas to lie in ambush. It was a simple tactic, but had rarely let them down. The victims they had elected to spare could attest to that.

"This is a step-up in weaponry," Dismas hefted the crossbow, examining it. "Still haven't reached modern standards though."

"I suppose we should wake up the Doctor," Reynauld kicking the shield gently. "Pity, I was hoping not to disturb them." Over in the corner, the other two members of their party slept soundly.

"Civilians," Dismas snorted.

"Hey, Doc, we've got something for you to examine," Dismas told them, squatting over their prone form.

"Ah, alright," the Doctor pulled themself up with impressive sobriety for a presumably sleeping person.

"You think we should wake Junia?" Dismas asked, nodding at her, still sleeping.

"Nah, let at least one of us have a restful night," Reynauld responded.

The Doctor was busy now, dismantling the various pieces of arms and armour left on their fallen enemies. The shield had pieces of metal, leather and wood carved off and bottled, while the crossbow had survived intact thus far.

"Now, this is interesting," the Doctor murmured. Reynauld and Dismas looked over curiously, where the Doctor was holding up the crossbowman's helmet up.

"Would you kindly light a torch for me, Dismas?" the Doctor requested, to which Dismas complied, albeit slowly.

"This helmet does not match the style of the others we have seen here. The wood in the crossbow seems of a different composition than in the other weapons, as well," the Doctor looked closely at the helmet in the light.

"I think I've seen this before," Dismas looked curiously at the helmet.

"I think we have," Reynauld agreed. "The helmet, and the crossbow, are from the French army."

"The French!" Dismas yelled out.

"Calm down," Reynauld told him. The shout echoed down the corridors, reverberating into the darkness.

"THE FRENCH! THEY'RE NO GOOD, TERRIBLE, CHEESE-EATING SURRENDER MONKEYS!" Dismas yelled at Reynauld. Junia smacked Dismas in the face.

"Good night, Junia," Reynauld greeted.

"It was," she scowled. "May I just say the French are wonderful people?"

"They're-" Dismas began, but silenced himself when Junia placed a hand on her mace.

"Watch your language in polite company," Junia's scowl only grew.

"Why, precisely, do you have such a deep-seated hatred for our geopolitical neighbours?" the Doctor asked, an edge of annoyance to their voice.

"Well, every Englishman should hate the French," Dismas insisted.

"Have you ever met a French person?" Junia asked.

"Yes, and they were lovely," Dismas answered, smiling to himself. "The best was this girl named Amelie, magical voice and this wonderful round pair of- eyes," Dismas flinched under Junia's stare, a hallmark of nuns.

"So you agree that French people are nice," the Doctor asked drily.

"Well, I never said that they weren't," Dismas shrugged.

"Then if you like the people, then why precisely why do you claim to hate the French," the Doctor finally looking up at Dismas.

"Well, it's more the idea of the French that I hate," Dismas emphasized the word idea, making it clear to all present that he had no idea what he was talking about.

"So you hate the concept of... Frenchliness?" Junia asked.

"Let's call it the culture," Dismas explained. "By which I also mean the cheese."

"I like their cheese," Reynauld murmured, still staring down the corridor.

"Blue cheese?"

"Okay, not that one," Reynauld conceded.

"I believe I brought some cheese to the hamlet, actually," the Doctor added.

"Do you all love their cheese?" Dismas complained.

"The French did not invent cheese," the Doctor commented.

"Then who did?" Junia asked, curiously.

"I believe nearly everyone did. Most societies have someone who forgets to bring in the milk," the Doctor noted, nodding in thought.

"I think I need to sit down," Dismas murmured.

"Good, you have first watch," Reynauld told him, wandering off to find a good spot to sleep.


	16. Something Lurks

Reynauld woke up unsettled. The sun was unable to provide its guidance here, and he was unsure how long he had slept. This was a problem for a few reasons. Firstly, he was lethargic, most likely from oversleeping. Secondly, the last person to go on watch was supposed to wake up the others. Waking up naturally led him to the conclusion that aforementioned watchman had shirked their duties. He continued to close his eyes, listening for any sign of being overrun by enemies.

Once satisfied that nothing was going to pounce on him, Reynauld rose onto his feet and prepare to pounce on whichever person had been so neglectful as to put them all at risk.

As he lit a torch to find his compatriots however, it was apparent that he was the only one who would have been surprised in case of attack. The Doctor was busy doing another one of his inscrutable experiments, while Junia was studying the Versebook. Dismas was missing, probably off exploring more of the ruins. It was a blessing that they had discovered a map in the ruins, saving the trouble of having to create one themselves. Still, it was prudent to make sure none of the paths had changed since the map had been drafted, due to falling rubble or cave-ins.

"Didn't get any sleep?" Reynauld asked, stretching his sore muscles. Sleeping on rough stone floor never got much easier on the body.

"No," Junia said, looking up from the book.

"You really should, you know," Reynauld told her. "When the fatigue comes, it comes all at once."

It was a common occurrence with civilians on their first foray into enemy territory. Their only taste of action having been the occasional argument or bar brawl, the constant tension and excitement of the expeditions would put them on edge. Restless and fidgety, they would be unable to sleep, and spend the rest of the night on any small activity. The soldiers in Reynauld's squad had spent the first few nights gambling and chatting. Once the rigors of combat set in though, they learnt to sleep anywhere, and wake up quickly.

"Did Dismas say when he was going to come back?" Reynauld queried the Doctor, busy pouring some chemicals back and forth. The Doctor grunted noncommittally in return.

"No, but he did tell us we could head back without him, and he'd meet us on the way back," Junia offered from the floor. "He left for a bit, then came back to pass the message."

"Well, this is annoying," Reynauld grumbled. "He had the map."

"Well, we came over here in a straight line, it's not going to be too hard to make our way back," Junia pointed out.

"Well, it's not that I'm concerned about. I wanted to find a way down to the next level of the ruins before we headed back," he continued. "Without the map, I don't know if I trust us to find it again."

"Well, there's naught we can do about that now," Reynauld shrugged. "We should move soon, get back before the heir assumes we're all dead."

"I can finish this back at base," the Plague Doctor stood up from their work. "Shall we exit this ruin then?"

The three of them walked back through the corridor with little bother, something that had become characteristic of the place. Reynauld was beginning to chalk up his uneasy feeling to unjustified paranoia. Soon they began to reach the hidden passage behind the bookcase. Reynauld was promptly grabbed by the neck for the second time that day.

"Shh," Dismas whispered in his ear. "There's something in that room, and it's not friendly."

"What're you talking about?" Reynauld hissed back. "We cleared that the first time through."

"Well, I don't often hear scratching and shuffling from nothing. Not in the habit of being insane," Dismas responded.

Reynauld pushed Dismas off him and dusted himself off, rolling his shoulders and hefting his sword.

"Then we'll kill whatever's in there," Reynauld remarked.

The four of them took up positions around the passage, Dismas and Reynauld flanking the entrance with the other two not far behind. Reynauld used a hand to fling open the bookcase, and Dismas fired off shots into the passage.

"We got a problem here, people!" Dismas yelled over the cacophony. "They just took shots to the head and didn't go down!"

"Well shoot them again!" Reynauld yelled back.

The Doctor tossed their trademark glass bottle forwards, spilling corrosive liquid over a skeleton with a heavy vest. Its partner wore only its sword, but made a good show of charging forward with it.

Reynauld descended to one knee, and swung his greatsword through leg level. The skeleton toppled forward, legs split in half, and collapsed to the ground. The heavier skeleton chose to repeat its fallen ally's attack, and raised a shield to charge. Reynauld swung his sword again, but the charging attacker took the hit and continued moving. Junia raised her mace into the air, and the undead bruiser staggered into the wall, falling to its hands and knees.

"I require a few minutes," the Doctor told the rest curtly, backing further into the hallway.

"Running, Doctor?" Junia asked, her voice beginning to crack. She received no response.

The skeleton began to raise itself, and Dismas fired a series of shots into its back. Reynauld slammed its head with the hilt of his sword, but it clambered back up to its feet. Reynauld stepped in front of the skeleton, raising his sword into guard. The skeleton slammed Reynauld's sword out of his hands with its shield, and kicked Reynauld backwards onto the floor.

The skeleton raised its axe menacingly, stepping towards Junia and Dismas. The Doctor chose this moment to step in behind the skeleton and shove a knife into its throat. The skeleton clutched furiously at its throat, thrashing furiously. Reynauld was rather surprised that someone of their stature was capable of holding on to such a large, hulking monstrosity.

The skeleton gave a final few jerks, and with its death throes ended, dropped to the floor. The Doctor pulled the knife out of the skeleton with force, sheathing it in the same motion.

"How'd you manage that?" Dismas grinned at them.

"I coated a knife with some of the chemicals you've seen. Delivered a substantial amount of acid to its spine rather effectively," the Doctor explained. "I would rather not have to do that again, though."

"Shall we leave?" the Doctor asked.

"No, hang on," Reynauld looked into the room, where Dismas was padding around. Where the Doctor could examine bone and flesh, Dismas was practicing a different kind of analysis.

"Any of you notice the corpses of the two we killed on our way in?" Dismas asked.

"No," Reynauld looked into the room.

"Doctor, you took the robes off that skeleton when we came in the first time, right?" Dismas asked again.

"Yes, I still have that article of clothing with me," they answered.

"When we came through the first time, our footsteps were in the dust. There's another track here," Dismas swept a finger over the floor and held it up to his face. "Something thick and heavy brushed the floor after us, robes much heavier than yours, Doc."

"Add to this the fact that the skeletons we left here the first time are gone, and we found another pair of them here... I have a strong feeling that they're the same bunch," Dismas' face was set grimly now.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, there's something in here with us besides bones and ashes. And it knows we're here."


	17. Tired Return

Reynauld had expected another attack, but it didn't come. It appeared that whatever enemy they had made was content merely letting them know it existed. Reynauld was content to learn this and leave the

The question was how much credence to give his gut feelings. There was a difference between some nercomancer, and some eldritch diety. His gut pointed to the latter, and logic pointed to the former. Ignoring either was not how Reynauld had survived as long as he had.

Instinct was usually the result of noticing a series of tiny details that didn't add up. A forest too quiet, signifying the disappearance of woodland creatures, scared off by hiding soldiers. Perhaps tracks a little too fresh and numerous to be a natural occurence.

It stood to reason that the same subconcious cues would hold true in a dungeon. Reynauld had spent plenty of time in narrow corridors and winding fortifications. Then again, never one with undead abominations. Perhaps he was overthinking things. It'd been a long time since the Crusaders had done a good, clean exorcism or monster slaying. Just battles on the borders, throwing men at each other to die for a cause. A meat grinder for human life on a massive scale.

"You alright, Reynauld?" Dismas broke the silence in the carriage. The other two barely reacted. Fighting the monsters and wandering about the corridors for a day had tired them all out, and as the adrenaline left, the fatigue began to set in.

"Yeah... yeah. I'm alright," Reynauld glanced out the window at the sky, the dark-blue shade hinting at the fading sun.

"You've got that look again," Dismas noted, leaning against the wall of the carraige, his bandana pulled up around his mouth, muffling his words ever so slightly.

"I'm beginning to wonder just what we're fighting here. I'm a little surprised that we've all taken walking skeletons in stride, actually," Reynauld admitted. The stuff of nightmares had appeared before them, and fallen anti-climatically.

"Well, they weren't expecting us, that time," Dismas remarked darkly. "The next time we go in there, they may be better prepared."

"We should be able to match that," the Doctor spoke up, hunched over on the seat. "I have taken many samples, which should increase our knowledge of these things. However, we have seen different entities than before, which may hint at more complex beings."

"Great news," Reynauld sighed.

"Where do we even start with these things?" Dismas scowled. "Hey, Doc. Weren't you the one who didn't believe in them anyways?"

"I am... willing to change my views on reception of new information," they responded.

"Right then. I just wish I'd made you bet on it," he grumbled.

"Without muscle or sinew, I am unsure how they are capable of locomotion. Especially such violent movements as are necessary for combat."

"I don't suppose we can hope for them to all just fall apart?" Dismas asked hopefully. Reynauld chuckled, but that got him thinking.

"Did anyone check their weapons?" Reynauld asked, glancing down at his own sword. Proper care and maintenance of a sword required rather more work than these things were likely to be capable of. Blade oils and whetstones would not be the easiest supplies to come by in a dungeon, even if they knew how to use them.

Dismas nodded thoughtfully once Reynauld had mentioned that, but the Doctor required an explanation. It was... interesting, to see their resident expert schooled by the least academic of the bunch. Though Dismas often gave cause to wonder. His accent took on different tones around the townspeople, but now and with Reynauld it was neutral, a manner of speech so standard as to be suspect. Yet Dismas adamantly dodged any and all questions about his past, even much of his time as a bandit, so Reynauld had decided to allow him his secrets. He had more than a few of his own, anyways.

"Their weapons and equipment have deteriorated," the Doctor nodded thoughtfully. "This could be useful information. If nothing else, your weaponry should be more than a match for theirs."

The carriage rolled to a stop in the centre of town, and the tired group hopped off, stretching and yawning. Reynauld had never been able to decide if he hated the effects of travel or combat more. Combat left the muscles weary and tired, but travel made them sore and stiff. Flavours of fatigue, all long-time companions of his.

"You guys hungry? Of course you are, let's go," Dismas led the charge into the tavern, the Doctor carrying their haul of specimens into the bar. Reynauld hung behind with Junia, taking a slower pace.

"Pity you didn't get a chance to try out your powers," Reynauld told her.

"Oh, I'm sure a chance will come soon enough," she shrugged, and headed on in. Reynauld got his serving of food, and wolfed it down in silence. He would have to see the heir again, give a status report.

Reynauld slammed on the door again, and was received by the same annoyed caretaker. The caretaker was significantly more nonplussed, having reached the hamlet at the same time as the others, but having already changed into nightclothes. He dutifully led Reynauld in and ushered him into the heir's office.

"Did everyone come back in one piece?" the heir looked up at Reynauld expectantly.

"Went off without a hitch. I doubt it'll be this easy next time though," Reynauld sat down beside the heir.

"So far we've confirmed the existence of the skeletons, and that there's... some being down there. We suspect that's the thing which has been reviving the skeletons," Reynauld explained.

"Ah yes, I had expected that," the heir pulled out a sheaf of papers, indistinct from the others.

"My ancestor's writings are difficult to decode, and hard to find. The man was paranoid to an excessive degree," the heir told him.

"When I say difficult to decode, I don't merely refer to his horrid handwriting. Everything is written in code, which shifts between entires," the heir complained. "Ah, but you're not here to hear my complaints," the heir looked over the documents.

"Here we are. _'Mastery over life and death was chief among my early pursuits,'"_ the heir read out, looking back up at Reynauld. The significance of the words was clear, now that they had seen the results.

"You don't suppose it's your ancestor down there, do you?" Reynauld asked.

"No, no. The townsfolk told me he died, here in the manor. Details are sketchy, but they have assured me that he is safely buried in the graveyard," the heir gazed out the window.

"Let us hope we do not need to add to it," the heir sighed. "Well, that's plenty to have learned in just a few days. In good news, you'll have reinforcements coming in soon."

"How many?" Reynauld asked.

"Four of them, for now. It seems an auspicious number. What works best tactically, however, I'd leave to you."

"No, I agree. Teams of four are a good idea. Four is a small enough number to get through the corridors, and having too many people in a team is a huge risk if an entire team gets wiped."

The heir nodded, and leaned back into the chair. Just being in the hamlet, the estate, seemed to have drained the man. Reynauld, too tired for further considerations, said his farewells and retired to the tavern.


	18. Reinforcements

I may or may not look for a beta reader. Depends on if I trust myself to stick to a schedule. It'd only delay my sporadic updates more.

* * *

Reynauld was in a foul mood this morning. To compound his woes, there was nothing to occupy him. Dismas' gallows humour grated on his nerves. Their recent touches with death meant that today, his callous attitude regarding mortality set him on edge. The doctor was busy with their experiments on recent specimens, and had sent him away, "unless he wanted to be the next test subject". As for prayer, the Vestal had gotten it into her head to preach to the locals, and thus was trying to pull people into the abbey. He preferred not to interact with her during such times, where she was zealous beyond measure. All this left Reynauld with equal servings of boredom and irritation. He sat outside the tavern, sharpening his blade on a whetstone and watching the stagecoaches roll by. Rations, mead, and occasional medicines came to the hamlet, and the drivers foolhardy or brave enough to make the trip were well rewarded.

Such was the case for anyone who came to the hamlet willingly, Reynauld mused. The locals, on the other hand, made merely the mistake of being born here, in a village plagued by otherworldly abominations.

At least the locals were benefiting from the heir's arrival. Having a group of hungry adventurers in town was a stimulating boost to the economy. Medicines and supplies were coming from farther away, and the farmers had a wealthy buyer to sell to.

It was annoying, having to wait idly by. They had decided not to enter the dungeon again, taking time to gather supplies and prepare for the next entry. The Doctor had experiments to do as well. That left Reynauld awaiting the new arrivals.

He wondered what manner of person would be willing to come to the manor. There were plenty of people wandering the country, for a myriad of reasons. To seek fame and fortune, or to run from something else. There was plenty of demand for skilled adventurers, even if just to burn plague victims and kill rabid dogs. Then there were the official guilds and societies. Loathe as they were to admit it, the Church was incapable of handling the people's needs, especially with their resources drained by the war.

Reynauld hadn't met too many of them, though. There was an ever-present concern that one of them would know who he was. The good news was that anyone coming here would not be from the Church. An isolated village was of little concern, especially one whose noble family had fallen so far from grace.

The stagecoach rumbled down the road into the hamlet, the caretaker spurring the horses on with perhaps slightly too much enthusiasm. Reynauld pulled the whetstone off the sword, frowning as he noted it was slightly too sharp.

Reynauld walked up to the back of the stagecoach as it rumbled to a stop, extending a hand inside to help its occupants out.

"Merci," the first nodded at him. A gruff, bearded man, his facial hair blonde and thick like an avatar of the nordic gods. He was adorned with the type of beard that made women swoon and men jealous. He wore a simple leather vest, with a scarf about his neck and a badge pinned to it, the uniform of the Gendarmes.

"Was that french? Wait until Dismas gets a load of you," Reynauld grinned, pulling the man down. With a blur of fur, his wolfhound pounced out after him, sniffing Reynauld curiously. Reynauld pet it gently, and it nuzzled into his hand.

"Well, if my girl likes you, we'll get along just fine. Got a nose for people, she does. "I am Johanne Bardou."

"You have a beautiful dog," he noted, as the Houndmaster hauled some supplies off the stagecoach, pulling a small dog treat from his pocket and tossing it to the hound.

"Ah, a man after my own heart," the Houndmaster smiled.

"Do not presume to touch me," the second man refused the proffered hand with a grimace. He looked about the manor, inches from physically recoiling. Dressed in a turban and scholar's robes, the Arabian man seemed to exist as an antithesis to his surroundings. Pale, frail, covered with the type of pale, unblemished skin that had never witnessed a day's labour.

"Well, can I help you with your things?" Reynauld asked helpfully.

"I have brought no luggage with me," the Occultist dismissed Reynauld, turning away towards the tavern. He squinted again, muttering something about 'hives of scum and villainy', then reluctantly entering the tavern.

"Well, before we meet our mutual employer, there's two others to wait for. So, is the hunting good around here?" the Houndmaster asked Reynauld.

* * *

Dismas looked at them suspiciously. "What was his name again, Reynauld?"

"Johanne," Reynauld repeated. Dismas narrowed his eyes again.

"Something's fishy here." Dismas was sitting in an alleyway, drinking rum straight out of the bottle. His intoxication did nothing to temper his paranoia. Reynauld had brought Johanne to Dismas in the hopes of their mutual interest of hunting bridging the gap between nationalities. The wolfhound had remained outside the tavern, being doted on by Hugh, who was feeding her scraps from the table.

"Is there something wrong, mon ami?" Johanne asked. Dismas leapt to his feet and slid into a fighting stance. His gun was being cleaned, but Dismas didn't reach for his knife, which was a good sign. Reynauld had seen Dismas in bar brawls, however, and the lack of weaponry did nothing to prevent him from carrying out a savage beat-down.

Dismas turned to Reynauld. "You betrayed me!"

"What did I do?" Reynauld asked incredulously.

"You brought this here!" Dismas brandished the bottle in an intimidating fashion, pointing at Johanne.

"Then hit him!" Reynauld yelled back.

"I have nothing against him. You brought the concept here!" Dismas countered.

"That makes no sense Dismas," Reynauld sighed.

"Ah, am I causing this conflict?" Johanne asked.

"No!" the two of them responded simultaneously.

"Look, there better be something good to offset you bringing this accursed concept here or I will do something terrible to be determined at a later date!" Dismas vaguely threatened. He sloshed the bottle slightly too hard, and some of the liquid spilled out. Dismas looked at the puddle in exaggerated anger, then glared at Reynauld again and took a swig.

Then the wolfhound barked at Dismas, following the group into an alleyway. The hound had come after them, and rounded on Dismas to protect its master.

"Holy shit it's so cute," Dismas blurted out, tossing the bottle at Reynauld. Dismas crouched down and began petting the dog. Reynauld took a relieved swig from the bottle.

"French wolfhound?" Dismas asked, stroking his hand through its fur.

"Oui. Am I in the presence of a lover of dogs?" Johanne asked.

"I had an irish wolfhound as a pet once, when I was much younger," Dismas stared, captivated, at the hound. It was more than Dismas ever said about his past.

"Hunting?" Johanne inquired, folding his arms and looking proudly at his hound.

"Yes, but I've learnt to manage without the hound nowadays," Dismas muttered softly. In the complex code spoken by men who isolated themselves from society, this was a subtle invitation. Reynauld glanced at Johanne, slightly worried. This meant more to Dismas than a thousand nights at the brothel, or a case of fine wine.

"Shall we correct that?" Johann grinned at Dismas. A agreement.

Dismas held his hand up, pausing the party. The hound's ears perked up, following his direction. Johanne and Dismas had entered the dense forest, bringing Reynauld along to carry the spoils of their endeavor. Reynauld had agreed, on the terms that he'd also receive part of the freshes.

"You hear that?" Dismas whispered. He pointed at Reynauld and made a small motion downwards, telling Reynauld to stay so he wouldn't scare the animals with the clank of armour. Johanne nodded at Dismas, and they trekked ahead, stalking through the undergrowth.

After about an hour, which Reynauld spent cleaning his armour, the two returned with a heavy sack, and two live rabbits, tied together with string.

"Keep those two alive, Doctor's orders," Dismas explained. Reynauld nodded, grabbing the sack and the rabbits.

* * *

Reynauld entered the tavern, handing the sack to Hugh, who nodded and brought it into a back room. The day was coming to a close, and the tavern was bustling. Reynauld navigated the tables, nodding at Junia as he passed.

As Reynauld began to head upstairs to the tavern, however, an armoured man bumped into him and grabbed the rabbits out of hands. The man wore a helmet, with dark cloth falling from it to cover his face. Leather and scale armour covered his body, an axe and a hook hanging from his belt.

"Hey!" Reynauld called out, chasing after him. He pushed past the tavern goers, but struggled to keep up. The man slid through the crowd, weaving between tables and groups, blending into the crowd despite his odd dress. Reynauld attempted to track him, but soon gave up and made a beeline for the exit.

As he burst out of the tavern's door, he reacquired his target, walking towards the church. He now wore a cloak over his armour, and walked with a stumbling gait. To anyone else, he would look like a local on his way home. Reynauld, however, could recognize the look of holstered weapons through clothing, and followed from behind.

The man entered the same training grounds that he had first been to, in his spar with Junia. Another figure stood there, waiting. He couldn't quite make it out in darkness of the evening. He followed in anyways, hand brushing over his sword.

"Here," the man grunted, voice low. It wasn't the muffled, gritty sound of the Doctor, but a scarred baritone. It sounded natural, a fitting voice for him.

"Impressive," a woman's voice.

"I can find anything," the man responded. It was said as neither a boast or a promise. A fact, spoken with unshakable conviction.

"Still, even hunting would have taken much longer," she insisted. Reynauld came in closer, taking a good look at the other figure. He was stunned. Clad in furs of some mysterious beast, the woman was nothing like anything he had seen before. Most women possessed either demure beauty or gritty hardiness. Either noblewomen or peasant ladies. This was a mix of both. Wound muscle, not the thick bulk gained from working the fields, but a lithe form built for agility. Not the dull mass of a pack animal, but the coiled musculature of a wolf. A blue streak ran down the right side of her face, the product of some tribal dye.

A tribal woman though. A heathen. Reynauld was no longer a member of the church, but this was a heathen. Reynauld held an internal debate, which he was unable to reach the end of.

"It was from him," the Bounty Hunter gestured at Reynauld. Reynauld sheepishly stepped out from his supposed cover.

"Uhh, yeah," Reynauld agreed.

"Well, thanks," she nodded. Grabbing the twitching rabbit, she pet it gently, and the animal relaxed in her hands. She snapped its neck. Blood dripped down onto the ground, and she pulled it to her lips and drank from it. Reynauld watched with a mixture of horror and curiosity. The other man stood by impassively.

She slid the rabbit's body over the blade of the glaive, spilling its entrails into the dirt. She touched the entrails, murmuring to herself, then stood up and wiped the blood from her mouth.

"The spirits are appeased. Shall we meet this heir?" she asked. She picked up the glaive, and headed off, the two men following behind.

"Reynauld?" the man handed the other rabbit to him.

"How did you..." Reynauld asked, grabbing the rabbit, which seemed to be more jumpy than before.

"There's ten thousand gold on your head. Twenty for Dismas," the Bounty Hunter stated, monotonously.


	19. Introductions

I have a game for you all. Time is unclear here. Whispers from the past, present and future can be heard by those with sharp senses. Guess who is speaking, and you shall glimpse past the fabric of reality. (You get to ask one question about something. I may or may not answer clearly.)

 _"It is not too late."_

 _"I have a plan for everything."_

 _"What happens the day you fail?"_

 _"I shall knock on Death's door with a chess set."_

* * *

Reynauld entered the tavern to the sound of heated debate. Normally you would hear slurred arguments, over bar tabs and the owner of the finest derrière in the town. This was a different beast entirely. The townspeople were quiet, watching intently.

"Knowledge is surely the highest form of pursuit!" the Arab man slammed the table vigorously.

"I do not doubt you, but knowledge is pointless without reference to practicality. Is it any use to the farmer when the snows fall if he knows not to harvest the crops?" the Doctor countered, to thunderous applause from the villagers. The Doctor raised a hand in acknowledgement, calming the people to allow a counter-point.

"Ah, but the pursuit of knowledge comes first, then the application. If you begin with an end-goal, then your investigations are skewed. Mathematicians study the art of numbers as a pure pursuit. The use in calculations came later. All knowledge can be used, but must be acquired first. Information can be used in conjunction with prior knowledge to create new discoveries. How can we know what is useful before studying it? We must study everything without discrimination." the people murmured, recognizing, if not the logic in the argument, the beauty of the ideal.

"You admit, then, that the goal of the acquisition of knowledge lies in practicality? That despite it being the pursuit, it is merely a means to an end?" the Doctor riposted gracefully, to cheers. The Doctor turned and bowed dramatically.

"How do you intend to define the true pursuit then? Men and women spend their lives on knowledge, while others merely use the spoils. Surely one has far more significance than the other?"

"Those few people's lives are a pittance in the grand scheme of things. Does the man who cures a disease deserve more note than the lives he saves? Most men of medicine work for the betterment of humanity."

"Here we come to a limit of your experience. Medicine is a different field, with its roots in... helping people. There are far more fields than that. Astronomy, numerology, meteorology! Knowledge does not confine itself to any one place," the Occultist responded. Reynauld, who was slowly pushing past the crowd, found Dismas, who was one of the few not watching the debate.

"What side are you on?" Reynauld asked him.

"All the knowledge I need I found earlier," he snorted. Reynauld cocked his head curiously. Dismas reached into his coat and pulled a book out just far enough that Reynauld could recognise it. The Kama Sutra. Reynauld sighed.

"Where's Johanne?" he asked.

"He's finishing something. Huh, that reminds me," Dismas got up and headed deeper into the tavern. Reynauld continued his advance to the centre of the room. The rabbit still twitched in his hand.

"Name me one field that does not use its discoveries for the betterment of humanity. Not a field that does not aim to help, but one that does not help at all" the Doctor asked, leaning forward. The Occultist nodded, deep in thought.

"Okay, okay, people. Show's over," Reynauld walked in front of the argument and dropped the rabbit into the Doctor's lap. The townspeople groaned.

"Weren't there supposed to be two?" the Doctor asked.

"Complications came up," Reynauld whispered in response. The bar patrons still looked over at the table, some hopeful, some angry.

"Dinner's on us!" Dismas yelled. He and Johanne were carrying haunches of vension, passing it over to be cooked. Dismas presented the head of the deer to Hugh, who clapped happily and hugged the two of them.

"We're popular now," Junia shouldered Reynauld, coming to the table.

"Entertainment and food will please any man," Reynauld nodded in agreement.

"Oh, I wasn't talking about that. I had a record turnout at the Abbery. I'm signed on to do weekly sermons when our schedule allows."

"Happy ending for everyone, then," Reynauld smiled, grabbing a bottle of mead and drinking deeply.

"Well you did interrupt the most fun I had in weeks," the Doctor whispered to Reynauld, out of earshot of the Arab.

"Also I cannot carry out my breeding experiment now," they complained. Reynauld spat his drink out onto the tavern floor. The Arab scowled at him.

"Uhh, not for either of the rabbits..." Reynauld corrected.

Now that the tavern had settled to its normal bustle, eating from the considerable spoils of Dismas and Johanne's hunt, the adventurers settled around a table.

"We may need a new meeting place if we get any more people," Reynauld noted. Eight people around the tavern table was still comfortable, but twelve would be impossible.

"We could use the Church," Junia offered.

"I do not believe I can enter that place without considerable reprecussions," the Arab offered.

"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it. For now, we should introduce ourselves. I am Reynauld. Former Crusader," he told the assembled group.

"Dismas. Rogue, bandit, devilishly charming ladykiller and marksman," he said with a flourish. Reynauld punched him in the arm.

"I shoot things and stab things," Dismas rolled his eyes.

"Doctor," the Doctor said. "I utilise a complex reaction using specific reagents that act as a fast-acting solvent-" Reynauld sighed and looked pointedly at them. The others all looked confused, save the Arabian, who nodded wisely.

"Me throw green liquid, thing burns," the Doctor snarked. Reynauld sighed harder.

"Do give me the other explanation later," the Arab requested.

"I'm Junia, Vestal. I heal-" the Doctor snorted, to which Junia glared annoyedly.

"I can heal us from whatever injuries come," she continued.

"Do you not believe in healing?" the Arab asked the Doctor.

"Not you too," they groaned.

"I can demonstrate," he insisted.

"Save it for later." Reynauld slammed the table.

She was next. The woman who inspired conflicting feelings in Reynauld.

"Are we all to have nicknames?" she asked.

"Well, the Doc never told us his name, and we might as well keep the theme," Dismas shrugged.

"I am Asselin. For a name... the elders of my village called me a Hellion. That shall do," she told them. She hefted her glaive.

"That explains what I do."

The assembled group looked to the helmeted, silent figure. He looked back expressionlessly. The cloth hid his eyes, but Reynauld was certain he could see out of it.

"I hunt. Man. Beast. Item. If there's coin," he spoke. The Hellion passed him a few coins, presumably payment for finding the rabbit.

"Your voice. Sounds like scar tissue in your throat. Would you like help with that?" the Doctor asked.

"Fine like this. Not much used," he replied.

"I am... Call me the Occultist. It is what I study," he told them. "Curses, healing, offense. I can manage. Just do not expect me to take attacks. My name is Abdul Alhazred"

"We're going to need to go through this everytime, aren't we?" Reynauld sighed.

"Maybe we should get nametags," Dismas offered.

"Knew yours. Unnecessary," the bounty hunter offered.

"How did you know?" Reynauld asked.

"Open bounty, by the church. Don't worry, too far to bother," he explained.

"How much?" Dismas asked.

"Ten for him, twenty for you."

"Ha!" Dismas yelled victoriously.

"What're you celebrating about?" Reynauld asked.

"I'm worth more than you! I'm a bigger badass!" Dismas cried out.

"That's not how it works!"

"Is." The hunter grunted.

"Ha! Drinks are on me!" Dismas announced to the table, to cheers. Reynauld sighed, good-naturedly this time.

The heir entered at this point, looking ever more haggard. He accepted a drink from Hugh as it was handed out. The Hunter refused a drink, he noted. The Doctor did as well, but their reason was clearer.

"I see you are all acquainted. Good. I shall leave the tactics to you, Reynauld. Confer with the Hunter as well. Now, here's what I've found."

The heir explained the system of aqueducts that had been found, which were teeming with filth. This alone would call for janitors and not adventurers. The inhabitants were the problem. Some unholy amalgamation of man and beast.

The Doctor snorted.

"Are we doing this again?" Junia asked.

"They may be like the walkers of my home," Asselin nodded. "Men and women who can transform into beasts, gaining much strength, power, speed and cunning. There are all manner of beasts they can choose. Wolves, lions, eagles, and such," she explained.

"What animals are these?" she asked.

"Swine," the heir said.

"Hm," Asselin frowned. "I would consult with my elders, but I am afraid they are far away. I have never heard of a boar walker."

"These cannot transform, I believe. I know little though. The notes state that these things were just beginning to appear in my Ancestor's time. Radical change may have occurred," the heir told them.

"Do what you see to be necessary," the heir explained, and left. Reynauld thought for a moment, the group looking at him expectantly.

"We have five days before the next expedition. Everyone take a day with one of the new people. By the end they should know everything we know," Reynauld told them. The assembled adventurers nodded. Reynauld felt a sense of calm. He gave instructions, and they were followed. Just as things were supposed to work.

Then everyone started squabbling over who was to be paired off with who.


	20. Cognitive Dissonance

Painful to write.

* * *

The group had agreed to pair up based on dice rolls. However, no one but Reynauld knew about Dismas' compulsive cheating. Dismas had been assigned to Johanne, and Reynauld to Asselin. The Doctor was stuck with the Bounty Hunter, and the Vestal with the Occultist. Dismas had spent an hour laughing outside the tavern afterwards.

"What are you again?" the Occultist asked Junia over breakfast.

"I'm a Vestal," she scowled at him.

"Excuse me, but after several decades of studying nearly every relevant field and absorbing every fact I was capable of discovering, I have not heard of anything of the sort. So, unless you mean that you have become a piece of torso armour made of leather, I beg you to enlighten me as to what precisely you are," the Occultist spat out.

"It's a religious position which-" the Vestal began, rage stirring from within her.

"Ah, now I know why I've never heard of it before. It's completely useless and inconsequential," the Occultist returned to his breakfast. The Vestal sputtered with impotent rage. Reynauld intently avoided eye contact.

He headed over to the training grounds, keeping the other rabbit under his arm. The Doctor had given him the other rabbit. When asked, the Doctor explained that their experiment was a failure anyways.

"I hope you have better luck with it," the Doctor said cryptically.

Asselin smiled when she saw the rabbit.

"I needed the rabbit to ask the ancestor spirits, Reynauld. There are no... what's the word... pressing questions," she explained.

"Ancestor spirits?" Reynauld asked.

"Ah, one day I shall not need to explain this to everyone I meet. Come, sit," the Hellion sat on the grass. She pulled the rabbit over and slashed it open, pouring its blood onto the blade.

"Wait, why-" Reynauld pointed at the rabbit.

"The blade demands blood. It prefers it from enemies, but any will do."

"The blood makes it rust," Reynauld noted. Asselin wiped it off and nicked the skin of the rabbit, rubbing the fat over the blade.

"Okay, that makes more sense," he admitted.

"The ancestor spirits are all around us. Every living being, as it dies, stays behind, leaving a soul. Animals, people, places, objects. Something ties them to the living world, often a desire to help their descendants," Asselin explained, finishing the oiling. She hopped up from the grass and settled into a fighting stance. Reynauld leaned back, to observe and critique.

You do not critique art. Soldiers fought with a mechanical precision, the product of a hundred drills. Bandits attacked with a ferocious savagery akin to a wolf. Asselin, however, moved with an otherworldly agility, flowing from crouch to strike to dodge with a fluidity that assured it was entirely improvised. Her flurry of strikes and slashes left the hay used to fill the dummies coated the ground like the fields after a harvest.

The soldier's rule of thumb was to imagine a drop of blood for each strand of hay. Asselin had spilled enough to drown more men in, through that would be slightly excessive.

"Much focus on bleeding where you're from?" Reynauld asked.

"Out on the... _Oighear,_ we must bleed the animal. It becomes easier to track," Asselin stopped, poised in position. She was breathing heavily, but her voice was still entrancing.

"Oigar?" Reynauld asked, curiously.

"What is the word for... white land?"

"Ice?"

"Yes, that," Asselin went back into the routine. Reynauld had difficulty deciding whether he preferred conversation with her or the routine.

On the other hand, she was a heathen. He was hardly the biggest fan of the church himself, but having qualms with the church was not the same as disagreeing with all its doctrine. He still believed in the Light, and infidels made him uncomfortable.

Ancestor spirits... It was blasphemous. Reynauld pursed his lips under his helmet, thinking about it. It was impossible to reconcile these thoughts.

"Come then, I tire of doing this alone," Asselin extended a hand to him, and he snapped out from his reverie.

Reynauld got up, grasping her hand, wishing he wasn't wearing gauntlets.

They got into position, a few paces away from each other. Reynauld had long since learnt his lesson on underestimating women's combat prowess. They were still bad in a war, but in a spar, or smaller combats, their agility seemed an asset.

"Ready?" her glaive's blade seemed to twist through the air, its wavering, circular movement almost hypnotic. Reynauld nodded.

She charged, a terrifying war cry emnating from her mouth. The glaive's blade danced over his body, taxing all his concentration to parry. Asselin herself was impossible to keep track of, if he was inclined to try to hit her. She moved from swinging the glaive at full length to produce jarring slams against his helmet, to driving the axe blade between his armour plates from beside him.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, she bounced backwards, both combatants breathing heavily.

"That would have been much more effective if you were not wearing armour," she frowned, resting her hands on her knees, trying to catch her breath. Reynauld just sat down, panting.

He glanced down at his pauldron, noticing a trickle of red. He unbuckled the armour plate. He knew all too well that wounds in battle were often forgotten in the rush of adrenaline, bringing on myriad infections and diseases.

The removal of the plate revealed a nasty slash. It seemed that at least one of Asselin's multiple attempts to pierce his armour was a success.

"Seemed it was effective enough," he chuckled, reaching for his leather water flask and washing out the wound.

"Hm, I could fix that. Have to pour some of the rabbit's blood in it," she touched the wound.

"I'm going to go see the doctor," Reynauld told her.

"Probably wise. You would not be able to survive that remedy, I think." The two of them headed back to the tavern, making some small talk about technique.

"I don't think there'll be many enemies with this sort of armour, especially not with the pigmen," Reynauld pulled against the strip of cloth he'd wrapped around the wound to stem the bleeding.

"I do hope not," Asselin frowned. It did little to mar her beauty.

"Doctor!" Reynauld called into the bar, shouldering the door open.

"What precisely do you simpering fools require now?" the doctor sighed through the mask.

"Good to see you too, Doctor. Got a gash," Reynauld offered his arm up for inspection. The Doctor barely glanced at it before tossing a bottle of something and a roll of bandages at Reynauld.

"Wash, then bandage. Keep the rest for the next boo-boo," the Doctor turned back to the Bounty Hunter.

"Could you get me a camel's heart?" the Doctor scribbled something on a scroll.

"Probably. Cost you," the Hunter responded.

"Business expense. Won't," the Doctor mimicked his speech. Reynauld, fumbling with the bottle and the bandages at the same time, headed up the stairs.

"Come on," Asselin jogged to catch up. "I'll help you with that."

"It's all right."

"I insist," she told him firmly. "I caused the injury, it's my duty to make it right." They entered his room, Asselin placing their weapons by the door.

"Get your armour off, then," Asselin rooted around for a clean cloth. Reynauld obliged, feeling somewhat self-conscious. She remained silent, neither her words nor her face betraying anything.

She dabbed at the wound with the salve tenderly, a stark contrast to her earlier savagery and rage. She grabbed the bandage and wrapped it tightly around the wound, tying it off neatly.

"There," she patted the bandage.

"Thanks," Reynauld smiled at her. Asselin gripped his shoulder and planted a kiss onto his lips.

"Hang on, hang on," Reynauld pushed her back. Asselin raised an eyebrow.

"Something wrong?" she asked, cocking her head to the side. Her ponytail dangled to the side, swinging slightly. He stared for a second, captivated.

"I just-" Reynauld struggled to find the words.

"It is quite clear you like me, Reynauld. The gazes, that far-off look you get in the middle of a conversation, the stutter just now, as well. I assure you the feeling is mutual. What concerns are there left?" she smiled at him, sending spasms through his heart.

"Was I that obvious?" Reynauld groaned.

"Yep, mate. Whole bar knows," Dismas leaned in the doorway. "Yer shite at being halfway discreet. It's why I'm the roguish one," he raised his bottle.

"Dismas, close the bloody door," Reynauld sighed.

"Right, just tell me if you need to borrow my book. Asselin, drinks later," Dismas spun out the room, closing the door behind him.

"He is incredibly entertaining," Asselin commented. "Can see why you keep him around."

"I just..." Reynauld sighed. He had never been too good with words in personal relationships. Dismas often did the talking for the two of them. Not to mention that the last time he'd gotten involved in a romantic relationship a spiral of events meant he ended up half a country away and the target of a manhunt.

"Yes?" Asselin nodded, her hand on his thigh.

"You barbarians are... very direct, aren't you?" he asked, moving her hand.

"Indeed. I would not deny us something we both want for the sake of... what? Social niceties? Do you not like me?"

"No, no. You're absolutely stunning," he fumbled out.

"Why thank you," Asselin flashed her smile again. "Married?"

"No." Reynauld cut in firmly.

"I find it difficult to see the problem here, Reynauld," she furrowed her brow. "I see no reason not to carry on, despite the rather dry mood we now have."

"You're... you're a heathen, Asselin," he finally spat out, both informing her and himself.

"The Church hates me, I'm probably never returning back to my family, but..." Reynauld snapped his fingers, and a sparkle of light darted over and around his hand. He closed his fist, snuffing it.

"The Light has not yet forsaken me, and I am loathe to forsake it," Reynauld sighed. "You're really a great woman, Asselin. Charming, beautiful-"

"Oh, don't feed me that bollocks," she snapped at him. Reynauld looked at her, taken aback.

"That is the right word, yes? Boll-ocks? Dismas taught it to me yesterday," she bit her lip, thinking. Reynauld had to remind himself to snap out of this consistent infatuation.

"There's plenty of your stuff I've overlooked. Your insistence on carrying two large objects in one hand while holding a cloth on your arm with another, and attempting to then climb the stairs and treat your own wound. And barging through the door with your other arm injured. I was right behind you both times, you know?" Asselin ran down the list.

"And you absolutely refused to actually hit me in the fight! Do you not respect me as a fighter or am I to be reduced to something for you to look at?" she ranted, the same intensity she had in battle returning to her eyes now.

"It's chivalry," he insisted.

"Not a word I recognise," she waved a hand dismissively. "You treat the Vestal the same way, and that's fair, she's a pansy. I am Asselin, champion of the Iceni tribe and favoured of the spirits. Do not treat me as a child, Reynauld."

"It's chivalry, Asselin. There are things you must do for women," he explained.

"Reynauld." She stared into his eyes. "I promise I will never understand this. It probably makes sense, given the state of the women in the 'civilized world'," she sniffed.

"I like you. You're smart, skilled, and well, that doesn't hurt," she rapped his muscles. "So I'm going to look past it. Can you not do the same for me?"

"I... I don't think so," Reynauld frowned. He didn't like his own decision. Asselin sighed, a heavy thing, and leaned back, seemingly exhausted.

"I understand, I suppose," she grabbed her glaive. "Just try to cut out on this... chivery thing, alright?"

"Chivalry," he corrected.

"Yes, that," she gave him a weak smile. "See you around."


	21. Wallow in Shame

"Ya fucked up," Dismas swigged from his bottle, rapping Reynauld on the back of the head with his other hand. Reynauld was busy drinking, and Dismas had decided to join him.

"Would you leave me to my misery?" Reynauld groaned.

"You fucked up," Johanne sat on his other side, sandwiching him between the two. Reynauld buried his face in his hands.

"Reynauld, what is the font of all wisdom?" Dismas demanded.

"Not now," Reynauld's head knocked against the table. He'd downed at least ten shots, and the speech of the other two produced a deafening salvo of sound to add to his pounding head. Dismas slapped a book in front of him. Reynauld looked up, blinking.

"Kama Sutra, Reynauld. The entire book is about getting laid. What you have done here today is in complete opposition to that." Dismas slammed his fist on the table, another shock to Reynauld's poorly mental condition.

"It's not about getting laid, Dismas," Reynauld muttered.  
"Fuckin 'ell it ain't! Listen close, buddy. It's not about getting laid, no, though she's a bloody fine catch, eh?" Dismas and Johanne clinked glasses.

"She's not actually my type," Johanne commented.

"Yeah, me neither," Dismas shrugged.

"Anyways, Reynauld, you've been telling me about your previous ladyfriend all the bloody time. No shame, we all make mistakes. We've met all sorts of ladies in this romp throughout the country. Classy broads, roguish chicks, all types. Plenty smitten with you. You've _never_ responded like this. You're not going to make the same mistake again, Reynauld, mark my words. Both because I'd never hear the end of it, and because our lingering homoerotic undertones need to be resolved," Dismas slammed the table again for emphasis, shocking Reynauld awake again.

"What he said," Johanne pointed at Dismas.

"Just butt out, guys?" Reynauld sighed.

"Love of my life is Lucy," Johanne pet his dog. "I found her in the woods somewhere, mother dead at the hand of wolves. Rescued her, and she's been with me since. I had a couple before her, you know. So a word from the French, the authority on love: She might not be the one, but you'll kick yourself for the rest of your life if you don't take the chance," Johanne downed his drink.

"Trust me, he already has," Dismas got up, patting Reynauld on the back.

"No quip about the Frenchliness?" Johanne clambered up, slightly unsteady.

"I stand with your kind on this one. Onwards!" Dismas and Johanne staggered out, falling onto each other. Reynauld had been usurped as Dismas' drinking buddy, apparently. He couldn't quite bring himself to care. He sunk into the table, and let the comforting, if fleeting, mist of sleep dispel his troubles.

He awoke to Dismas drumming his fingers on the table. A small annoyance was made a deafening cacophony by his hangover, and because his head was resting on that very table.

"Knock it off," Reynauld grumbled, pulling himself off the table. The night's sleep had swapped out his regret with a pounding headache.

"The skeletons are overrunning the manor," the bounty hunter growled.

"Wait wha-" Reynauld jolted upright, glancing about. Evidently, it wasn't Dismas.

"No, they haven't. If they were, we'd be done," he said, voice dripping with contempt. "You're leading this circus, get your act together," the bounty hunter stood up, pushing his chair back with a deafening screech. Reynauld looked about the empty bar, blinking.

The bounty hunter was right, as much as he might hate to admit that. He wasn't fit to work today. Reynauld cracked his neck and headed back upstairs.

He came back downstairs showered, changed, and not feeling any better.

"Godamnit," Reynauld staggered to a table.

"Good morning, Reynauld," Asselin nodded politely.

"Yes, good morning to you as well," Reynauld said, slowly. The Doctor nodded silently. Reynauld turned to leave.

"Hey," the Doctor called out. Reynauld turned, and fumblingly caught the hankerchief thrown at him.

"Smell it," the Doctor returned to a drawing, pointing at something and telling Asselin something or other.

Reynauld headed over to another table, calling for breakfast. He obligingly sniffed the cloth, and the hangover immediately left him.

"He should sell this," Reynauld muttered to himself, eating the soup placed in front of him. The Bounty Hunter sat in front of him.

"So what're we going to be discussing?" Reynauld stirred his soup about.

"Your people. This team," the Hunter told him. Reynauld hadn't seen him eat. The Doctor took their food up, but this guy hadn't even touched any. That was odd.

"They aren't _my_ people," Reynauld replied.

"I think they are. They trust you," the Hunter glanced over his shoulder.

"Fair enough," Reynauld nodded. "What do you want to know?"

"You're a white knight type. You okay with working with wanted men?"

"I've got one myself," Reynauld shrugged.

"Some men justify their own crimes and not others'."

"Not me. So besides Dismas and I, who's being hunted, and for what?"

The Hunter glanced around the room, pointing at each person in turn.

"Plague Doctor. Forty thousand. Treason." Reynauld widened his eyes.

"You going for him?"

"I'm a mercenary, not a patriot. No."

"Carry on."

"Houndmaster's clean. Relatively. Get killed if the English knew his service record. Vestal's sickeningly clean."

"The other two?"

"Hellion. Standard infidel bounty. Not enough to pull anyone here. Occultist has a _fatwa_."

"For what?"

"I can't read Arabic."

"Right," Reynauld nodded. A _fatwa_ was an Islamic legal proclamation. Generally used as the Ottoman version of a treason order.

"Combat capabilities?" he asked.

"Doctor has acid and some very good medicine. Dismas is a crack shot, handy with a knife, and a damn good tracker. Vestal has healing magic, and a stun. Me, well, you know what the crusaders do."

"Mhmm," the Hunter grunted. "Occultist does magic. Houndmaster tracks, dog fights."

"Right," Reynauld nodded. He knew the Hunter's type. Combat proficiency was good, very good, but their strategic prowess was generally limited to knowing targets and security patrols, not large scale tactics like he did.

The problem with their operation, which he had been struggling with since he'd arrived, was that the type of people who came to a place like this were either the best of the best, or outcasts. Those types of people almost always worked solo. Co-ordinating them was a huge ordeal.

"You think you can keep them working together?" Reynauld asked him. "Your group, I mean."

"No." Well, he was honest.

"I'll see if I can get Johanne on it. Anything else we should discuss?"

"No, I think there's enough discussion about your failed romantic conquests."

Reynauld groaned. Even the textbook stoic guy knew it.


	22. Drunken Bender

Hey, I'm back. I think.

* * *

"What's there to do?" Johanne flipped a coin over and over, as Lucy sat and stared at it in rapt attention. It was supposed to be their turn to work together, but Johanne was being stubborn, mostly due to a hangover.

After his talk with the bounty hunter, the various adventurers had gotten right back to the drinking. While the Doctor, Occultist and Bounty Hunter had retired to their rooms, consistently avoiding merriment, the rest had become better acquainted through liberal application of alcohol.

Reynauld remembered little, just small snippets, like the perpetual cajoling that finally got the vestal to take a sip of ale, which she promptly spat back out. They had all gone into the forest and attempted to drunkenly kill a rabbit. In the end, Lucy had killed it for them, between their clumsy attacks, while Johanne was too drunk to tell her to stop. Dismas had danced on a table, until he drew his pistol and attempted to shoot the ceiling, forcing Reynauld to tackle him onto the floor. It was a fun time.

"For one, we could teach Lucy who her allies are. For combat," he extended a hand to pet Lucy lazily. Reynauld was badly afflicted by last night's cavorting, but had resolved to at least make a solid attempt at working today. The fact that it was already mid-afternoon wasn't going to deter him.

"She knows, alright," Johanne commented, as Lucy rubbed herself into Reynauld's gauntlet.

"Hm," Reynauld struggled to find something else to do. Johanne had a good point, as much as he hated to admit it. Pretty much all of the skills Johanne could teach Reynauld had already been done by Dismas, and there was a certain limit to the amount of information about bear shit that Reynauld was interested in learning. Reynauld's skills weren't applicable to the man who let his dog do most of the combat, anyways.

"Yeah, I've got nothing," Reynauld shrugged, conceding the point. The tavern was deserted, little of note going on

"I'll tell you what we should do," Johanne grinned at Reynauld. Between Johanne, Lucy, and Dismas, he wasn't sure which one had the most wolfish grin. There wasn't too large a disparity between them.

"Let's go get drunk and do some mischief," he insisted.

"Weren't you a gend… gind… gonder… lawman?" the word escaped Reynauld temporarily. It was surprising to see Johanne advocate for law-breaking, basically.

"Yeah, but we've got to do something to liven things up," he shrugged. "I'll make sure we don't do anything too bad," Johanne tossed the coin a final time, and slid it into his pocket.

"Hang on a second, how're you so lively with a hangover?" Reynauld held up his hand. He had drunk somewhat less than the night before, and was more functional. The Bounty Hunter's reprimand may have done a little less than he would've hoped. Reynauld considered being functional a roaring success. But Johanne was somehow largely unaffected, though he'd drunk far more than Reynauld.

"Not the first time I've had to work while drunk off my ass," Johanne shrugged.

"Ehh, okay," Reynauld followed Johanne out the tavern, as the Houndmaster conspicuously grabbed two bottles off the shelf.

"I don't have a good feeling about this," Reynauld stepped lightly through the undergrowth. As lightly as one could while wearing full armour, anyways. Reynauld stumbled slightly, though not due to a root or a branch or anything of the sort. He was just losing his balance. Johanne, ahead of him, made a far stealthier approach up the path. The Houndmaster tossed a stick ahead of them, and Lucy ran off to chase it into the distance.

"Again, do you have a better idea?" Johanne pushed aside a leafy branch for him to duck under.

"I'm drunk enough that I'm willing to go along with this, so not really, no."

"Fair enough," Johanne grinned, letting go of the branch just in time for it to smack Reynauld in the face.

"Oh, I am going to get you for that," Reynauld brushed his face off, annoyed. The town had run out of amusements for the pair a while ago. The logical, natural, inebriated solution to this problem was to go bother their employer. By the light, he was piss-drunk.

"So, are we just going to knock on the door?" Johanne asked. He peered at the house, which impassively hid its contents behind sturdy walls and shut curtains.

Reynauld strolled up to the door, and rammed it with the side of his gauntlet. There was an audible crack as the wood curved inwards ever so slightly, and splinters grew out of it. The two waited for another few minutes to the sounds of chirping birds and Lucy attempting to chase a squirrel.

"Not in, I guess," Johanne shrugged.

"Not... an issue..." Reynauld grunted, fiddling with the window.

"Are you... are you breaking in?" Johanne stepped closer, peering at his fumbling.

"Trying to," Reynauld commented. Between the gauntlets and the alcohol, he had really stacked up the odds against himself.

"I'll have no part in this," Johanne scowled, annoyed. Lucy, picking up on some invisible cue from her master, tensed up and growled at Reynauld.

"Ah, spoilsports," Reynauld waved his hand clumsily through the air, then began to tug his gauntlets off. "Dismas would've come along. He would've, ah, what's the word... accompliceiamised me."

"I am still a _gendarme_ ," Johanne pulled himself to full height. He was still shorter than Reynauld.

"Well, just wait outside, I guess?" Reynauld's hands, no longer encumbered by the steel, slid over the frame of the window. There was a click, and the glass pane slid upwards. The crusader climbed upwards into the window, with a remarkable lack of dexterity.

"How do you know how to do that?" Johanne asked, watching the whole sorry process.

"Little help?" Reynauld asked, half his body, an arm and a leg hanging out the window.

"Yeah, no. I'm out of here." Reynauld heard the crunching of six pairs of feet against grass, which slowly grew softer until he was gone. He rested his face against the windowsill for a moment, then redoubled his efforts and pulled himself into the building.

There was a heavy crash as the steel hit the floor, and Reynauld hauled himself upwards. His butt was stinging, but he ignored it. It was the little victories that counted.

Reynauld walked down the hallway, vaguely remembered from his last journey here. He looked around the walls curiously, more interested in the decoration now. The carpet and paintings were probably savaged from the ruined manor house. They looked old, and it was hard to believe they were just lying around in town.

He stopped short, and slid up against a wall, as one of the doors in front of him opened. The caretaker stumbled out of it, clutching a candle and bleary-eyed.

Reynauld glanced around, and hurried assumed the position of one of the suits of armour in the room. He cursed himself as he noticed one of his gauntlets was missing, left outside the window in his confused and hasty entrance.

The caretaker glanced around as he walked down the hall. Reynauld held his breath as the caretaker passed by. He turned to look at him, squinting into his helmet. The caretaker didn't look down at his arms, but took a napkin and wiped a spot on his helmet, then turned and returned to his same door.

"I keep... good care of my armour..." Reynauld mumbled, annoyed.

Though one thing did occur to him. The caretaker had been here when they arrived, and had presumably been the one who retrieved the paintings and other items from the old manor house. The heir had looked surprised to see him. So why had he done so much work directed at fixing up a shack? He filed that away into whatever corner of the mind drunken revelations scampered into, to be vaguely remembered in the cold light of day.

Reynauld opened the door into the heir's office. The curtains were drawn shut, tightly, allowing not even a glimmer of moonlight in. He shook his hand about, and the old familiar ball of light showed up in his hand. Magic came so much easier in the throes of inebriation, that most welcoming of mistresses.

He looked over the table, notes strewn messily over its surface. He recognised much of it, the sketches and notes from their first expedition, as well as a few curious ones he didn't recognise. They were immaculate notes. Reynauld noted one particular sheet, and he pulled it out from under some others.

 _In conclusion, I recommend more specialists in the fields I have described._

 _Expenses: 1500 -Bounty Hunter._

"Is he getting paid more than us?" Reynauld hissed under his breath.

The rest of the papers were messy and uncoordinated, covered in scrawls. The heir's handwriting deteriorated. Perhaps he'd overworked himself. Besides that, his writing began to approach the same messy code his ancestor used. Strange symbols, as if that paranoid man from decades ago had made a totally new alphabet just to hide his notes from prying eyes. What had he done that required so much secrecy?

Reynauld filed this fact, too, into that strange repository where such thoughts went, to be erased with the morning sun. On that note, Reynauld decided he should definitely leave. The heir woke up early. He looked at one of the many shelves, at a crest that caught his eye. The symbol of his order, compelling somehow. Reynauld reached out to it, and pocketed the crest. Just touching it seemed to fill him with more vigour, which he used to make his escape.

Leaving was easier than entering, the caretaker delivered back to his slumber, and Reynauld wisely remembered to pick up his gauntlet and shut the window.

"Had fun?" Johanne asked, arms crossed. The Doctor was next to him, their robes slightly dishevelled. They tossed him a small vial, and gestured at him to drink it.

Reynauld took a swig from the vial, and his mind cleared.

"Okay, wow," he grinned. "This really is great."

The Doctor nodded, and tossed Lucy a dog treat.

Johanne shook his head. "You done with the spree? Had enough to drink?"

"I guess so," Reynauld admitted. "Yeah, I'm good," he nodded, and set off down the path.

And into that mysterious corner of his mind, there was a thought. No, he hadn't had enough to drink. Reynauld licked his lips thoughtfully. None of the various types of alcohol in the bar had really, properly sated that thirst. Regardless of content or place of origin, age or price. But, he remembered something else that had.


End file.
